The Watergaw

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/32700394.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: F/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Character: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, Ron
Weasley(mentioned)
Additional Tags: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Stranded, Magical Accidents, Banter,
Hurt/Comfort, Huddling For Warmth, Explicit Sexual Content, Scotland,
Virgin Draco Malfoy, lots of swears, Slow Burn, Bad Wine, just a couple
sapiosexuals roaming the countryside
Language: English
Collections: Dramione Double the Trouble, ultimate dramione rereads, dramione,
Crème de la crème of Harry Potter ff, Dramione Hord, I want to read
this, Dramonie_that_destroyed_me, dramione faves, Elite Dramione,
the best of hp fics, VV's list of the only Dramione fics that are really
worth your valuable time, Best of Dramione Stories, ,
Dramione well-written non-toxic gems, Dramione Fics, Dramione Short
Fics, Best Dramione, reread so many times that its becoming
unhealthy, Dramione re-reads , Best Dramione Rereads, all-time
greatest Dramione ❤️, fics that… transcend, Amazing works to
back to, Best of DMHG, Dramione Holy Grail, Read and enjoyed,
DRAMIONE MASTERPIECES ,
war_dramione_fanfiction, BEST of the BEST dramione, Best Draco
Malfoy Fics, musichappens' fandom library , keep off i‘m trYing not to
dIE, Inventive Dramione, JJ Need to Read, so far deep down the
dramione hole i refuse to try to get out, god-tier dramione, God Tier
Dramione, faves dhr. <3, To all the fics I've read before
Stats: Published: 2021-07-22 Words: 39,811 Chapters: 10/10

The Watergaw
by ectoheart, smokybaltic

Summary

In the middle of a war, Hermione is stuck in the middle of nowhere.

With Draco Malfoy.
Without her friends, her magic, or her books, she has only her wits to rely on to survive her
plight- to say nothing of her company. They've declared a truce, but somehow Draco keeps
slipping past all her defences.

Stranded together in the wilderness, Hermione and Draco are in for cold nights, endless
snark, bad wine, and some interesting scars.
Notes

Prompt:
Post Hogwarts - wine - drunken conversation

Author: Smoky Baltic

Artist: Ectoheart

I had a silly little idea for this prompt going in, but then Ectoheart delivered an incredible
piece of art depicting this moment of gorgeous intimacy, and I knew I was going to have to
work a lot harder to earn the intensity that she'd captured. We're clearly well past a picture
being worth a thousand words over here and I'm still not sure I did it justice, but I'm very
grateful for having had the opportunity to try.

Thanks also to Aetherios, for not only running this lovely fest, but for graciously being an
unending font of patience and good humour.
 Chapter 1
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione’s vision was blacking out around the edges and her ears were ringing. She wanted so
badly to succumb to the sweet pull of unconsciousness, but she knew with a cold, hard certainty
that if she gave in and closed her eyes, it might be for the last time.

She continued to convulse as the Cruciatus curse dissipated, leaving her body as if it were being
dragged out of her with its claws still sunk into her flesh. Her jeans were warm and wet from
having lost control of her bladder.

Vaguely she registered hissing, screaming. Something about a goblin.

She whimpered. Where were Harry and Ron ?

Bellatrix didn’t believe her about the sword. The witch was utterly unhinged, and Hermione knew
she wasn’t finished with her yet. Instinctively she began trying to scabble away, trying to get
purchase against the cold marble. There was nowhere to go but she couldn’t, couldn’t lay here
waiting. Could she keep up the lie if Bellatrix came at her again?

Bellatrix’s screams became pitched, and in her periphery Hermione saw a flash of the mad witch,
nearer again now, her wand in one hand and an ugly knife in the other. Other voices. Yelling. It
was like everything was happening underwater.

Her eyes wouldn’t focus.

Was that her name she’d heard?

And then time, which had seemed like an infinite agony stretching out beyond reason, suddenly
snapped. The volume of the world returned along with a bright jet of light. The murky darkness had
just begun to resolve itself into recognizable shapes and outlines when her vision filled
inexplicably with the figure of Draco Malfoy.

His pale eyes were wild, searching her face as he crouched over her. “ Granger .” She had expected
a threat in his voice but found something akin to fear instead.

Draco grabbed at her shoulder and raised his wand. Panic gripped her anew. In a cataclysm of
terror and instinct, she grabbed hold of it, thought of Tottenham Court Road, and focused with
everything she had on apparating.

She knew immediately that it had gone wrong.

It was like being in a crushing vice, ripping her savagely through space. She could feel Draco
jolting along beside her, thrashing. His wand had been wrenched from her hold, but she could still
feel his hand gripping hard around her upper arm.

Then, suddenly, the magic released her, and she was sent sprawling hard packed earth. She groaned
at the impact and heard Draco cry out from a few meters away. She struggled to sit, her head
spinning as she tried to make sense of where she was. Her heart was racing and blood pounded in
her ears.

Moonlight filtered eerily through towering trees all around. They were in some sort of clearing,
ferns and low growing bushes obscuring the ground beyond its tiny expanse.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” Draco swore.

“Shut up!” she hissed at him, trying to listen for danger.

“My fucking leg .”

She went instinctively for her wand, cursing when she came up empty. Scrabbling around her, she
found a heavy stick that she hefted as best she could. Not her first choice in weaponry, but at least
it was something. Pure adrenaline coursed through her veins as she half crawled toward Draco,
prepared to bash him over the head if need be, but he hardly seemed aware of her presence.

“It’s splinched,” he ground out, sitting hunched over in pain.

Trying to take advantage of his distraction she searched for his wand, squinting hard into the
darkness. It wasn’t on the ground and she didn’t see it sticking out of his sleeve or pocket.
“Where’s your wand?” she demanded.

“You took it,” he snarled, glaring at her, “Bloody brilliant move by the way, grabbing someone’s
wand while they’re apparating. Now I’m splinched and we’re clearly not at the lake house.”

“ You were apparating?”

“Did you think we got here by portkey?”

“ I apparated when I grabbed your wand.”

He looked at her like she was an absolute moron, “Why in the name of Merlin would you apparate
us here?”

“I was trying to apparate myself to London. Why did you apparate?”

“Seriously?” Draco muttered another low string of curses and stuck out his hand. “Look, just give
it back. It’s my wand, I can apparate us properly.”

Hermione’s heart sank and her whole body sagged. He really didn’t have his wand.

“What?” he growled.

“I don’t have it. I lost hold of it.”

No wands, no magic. She was a sitting duck who didn’t even know where she was sitting.

With Draco Malfoy.

She didn’t bother to pay attention to the diatribe that followed as she dragged herself away to the
shelter of the ferns nearby, tears streaming down her cheeks. Once out of view she collapsed onto
her back, trying to swallow her sobs as she pulled her beaded bag out from where she’d stashed it in
her sock. After a minute of fishing around, she came up with a pair of Harry’s tracksuit bottoms.
She closed her eyes against the humiliation of having to peel her urine-soaked jeans and knickers
down her legs. Her whole body screamed in protest as she awkwardly bent.

God, she had fled . She had left Harry and Ron at Malfoy Manor.

Her heart felt like it was collapsing in on itself as she lay in the dirt, her every fiber pulsing with
echoes of the cruciatus. She had no way to get back to them or even alert the Order to what had
happened. She had spent enough time in the woods since their hunt for horcruxes had begun to
know she was in a true forest and not likely to find her way out so easily, certainly not at night.

Lost in thoughts of what she couldn’t do and what she should have done, it took a minute to register
that Draco was calling her name.

“Granger. There’s— there’s blood. I need—”

She gripped her hair at the roots at the absurdity. Obviously he wasn’t too badly hurt to argue and
bitch. She could almost have laughed; Draco being a drama queen had an oddly comforting
familiarity to it. At least he clearly wasn’t an immediate threat.
“Granger, my leg’s cut up—”

Exasperated, she dug into her bag and pulled out a shirt, tossing it in his general direction. “Wrap it
up then, and stop whining .”

There wasn’t much in her bag, almost everything was in the tent now, but as she reached for the
shirt, she also came across a couple thin flannel blankets that she pulled around herself. Her initial
panic and despair had subsided enough to make her aware of the cold of the March night. Huddled
in the blankets, she returned to trying to think of how she was going to fix this situation. Afraid to
stay, afraid to go, but couldn’t imagine sleeping in such a vulnerable position.

The night was dragging on.

Earlier she had heard Draco moving around, cracking twigs beneath his feet as he took cautious
steps through the trees, but now he lay near. She could hear him breathing, shaking and panting,
rustling the leaves as he shook all over. Whimpering .

Hermione heaved a sigh and hugged her knees tighter to her chest, trying to stop her own shivering.
The ground was hard and damp, and although she'd moved several times, it was impossible to find
a spot without roots or rocks digging into her side. There was a convulsive sort of ache in her
bones, her veins, her eyelids .

She honestly couldn’t tell anymore whether she was shuddering from the curse, from the cold, or
from the horror. It felt like her nerves were misfiring.

The deranged face of Bellatrix Lestrange, angry and gleeful in the throes of Hermione's pain, swam
before her eyes. She thought of Neville’s parents and what Bellatrix had done to them with the
same curse. Their last moments of coherence had been filled with that same face. Cringing, she felt
an involuntary surge of something disconcertingly like gratitude toward Draco.

She still had her mind.

She had survived. She would heal.

Grimly, she pulled her blankets more tightly about her. This wasn't at all like her previous months
in the woods. No friends, no wards, no walls, no fire…

She sat up suddenly.

Maybe .

Every movement hurt, but she crawled out of the ferns and grabbed a few sticks without having to
actually get up. Sweeping away the debris of the forest floor beside her, she dropped a small pile of
dead leaves on the dirt then arranged her sticks atop it. She took a few deep breaths to focus and
then extended her hand.

" Incendio."

The little pyre burst into flames and she let out a small whoop of victory, picking up more dead
leaves to stoke it.

Groaning, she pushed herself to her feet to gather more wood. The light of the fire was too weak to
reveal much, and the moon wasn't very bright as it filtered through the canopy overhead, but she
was able to gather a couple good bits of wood and some thick, dry pieces of bark. More leaves.

She huddled beside the fire, blankets wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn’t giving off much
heat, but even this little bit was heavenly. Rubbing her hands together, she was casting around for
more fuel when her gaze caught on Draco's glare. Pale gray eyes reflecting fire.

She didn't look away.

With one hand he lifted a small log, his chin tipped in askance. A bargain proffered.
She didn’t acknowledge it.

"There's a dead tree just here" —he gestured behind him— "but I doubt you're in any condition to
be able to make use of it."

Hermione felt a wave of revulsion.

The devil never makes deals in the days of milk and honey.

"Fuck you."

Her pride would survive her.

"I could just take it." He looked meaningfully to the fire and then back to her, speaking as if it were
an observation rather than a threat. "I'm willing to share." As if he were the very soul of
generosity.

In his dark shirt and tie, with pale hair disheveled but bright, and eyes full of flames, he could've sat
for a portrait of Mephistopheles.

But she couldn't stop shaking and everything hurt and the dark of the forest was full of rasping
screams. It was foxes, she knew, but her head was full of fresh horrors and half of her was
convinced she was the one still doing the screaming.

She looked away, submitting to him with a dozen meaningless, half-formed justifications jittering
behind her lips. She stared resolutely at the fire as he hissed and grunted in pain, dragging himself
from the low circle of light to twist and snap dead limbs from a lifeless tree.

Slowly he built the fire up, laying a few gnarled branches aside for later.

Hermione laid down gingerly, huddling in on herself as near as she could bear to the flames. Her
back was still cold, but the shivering subsided.

With eyes squeezed shut, she focused on the pulse of her pain, rising and falling like waves against
the shore. She blocked out the eerie shadows dancing on the tree trunks, the screaming foxes, and
the horrible, gaping hole in her heart where hope was meant to be.

Harry was alive, she tried to tell herself. Harry and Ron both. She would know, somehow, if Harry
hadn’t made it.

She ignored the man now laying only a few feet away from her. The enemy. The enemy who had
maybe, maybe saved her.

Her eyes fluttered open just before sleep took her. His pants, she noticed, were dark and wet, the
fabric clinging to this thigh.

"You've bled through," she muttered, unaccountably irritated.

“Fuck it,” he grit out, staring through the flames.

When Hermione awoke, she was shaking with cold and the sun wasn't up. The dawn light glowed
gray through the trees, and a low misty fog shrouded the underbrush.

She had never been so aware of her bones .

They were cold, they ached, they lay heavy and sharp against each other, stabbed pitilessly by the
jagged tips of rocks and twigs. Her build had always been slight, but months on the run had
leached her flesh practically to the tendons. Mentally and physically, she was now down to her
essentials.

As the haze of sleep and pain subsided, she realized Draco was startlingly close, close enough to
touch. He was still asleep, curled in on himself, but he lay in the very ashes of the fire. His breath
stirred up little wisps of soot with every exhale.

He looked as gaunt as he had through most of sixth year, perhaps a little worse. Paler, certainly,
though she reasoned that might be blood loss. His hair was longer and oddly unkempt looking in
contrast to his tailored suit. He’d hardly loosened his black tie.

The corners of his mouth pulled down, as if he sensed her scrutiny.

Clumsily, she forced herself to get up on stiff limbs. She knew she'd be warmer if she started
moving and, more urgently, she refused to participate in such a farce of intimacy as waking up with
Draco sodding Malfoy.

Bent nearly double and feeling about ninety years old, she picked her way through the grassy, fern-
filled underbrush until she was a dozen meters or so away. After relieving herself, she propped her
back against a tree to survey her surroundings.

Based on the animal noises she'd heard and the density of the growth, it was clear they weren't in
some suburb-adjacent token woodland. She hadn't seen or heard anything to suggest anyone might
be nearby.

Without a wand, there weren't a lot of options. No apparating out. Even if she could cast a
patronus, she couldn't do any better than notify someone she was in the woods. ‘I’m in the forest,
come and find me! There’s a large rock’ wouldn’t do any good. She would have to trek out on foot
and try to find her way to somewhere she could make contact with Harry and Ron or the Order, or
possibly hop a bus and get to London.

She closed her eyes as she let her head drop back against the rough bark of the tree, breathing
through her pain, trying to think.

"Granger?" Draco's voice was faint, groggy and confused.

Hermione slumped in defeat.

"Granger!"

Bafflingly, he sounded almost scared.

She pushed off the tree, wincing as the bark caught at her curls. "I'm here." Her back was straight,
her chin up. Counterfeit confidence.

He began limping his way over. "What're you doing?"

Was there ever a more bizarre sight than a suit-clad Draco Malfoy, face smeared with ash and
furrowed with concern, picking his way through the forest in quest of Hermione Granger? It was
unnerving. She clenched her fists and balanced on the balls of her feet, readying herself for a fight
or flight that she probably wasn’t actually capable of.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said carefully, raising his palms in a gesture of peace.
She scoffed. "Well there's a change."

He stopped when he was a few meters off. They stared at each other through a long moment with
only echoing bird calls to break the silence. And then he spoke.

"What happened, with Bellatrix—"

Hermione glared.

"—I wanted it to stop. I just... I wanted it to stop."

She was shaking with the effort to maintain her posture, to keep eye contact.

"We're not in good shape here, Granger," he said, his head tilted one way then the other,
evaluating. "And you look like hell."

"What do you want?" She couldn't unclench her jaw.

"To get out of here."

It was his tone, much nearer to that of an inconvenienced blueblood than of a temptor, that
convinced her.

"Okay," she finally breathed on a long exhale.

"Okay?"

"Okay."

Keeping a cautious distance, they hobbled back to their clearing. Draco stooped periodically to pick
up what was likely kindling.

"Could you?" he asked after dropping it on last night's dead embers.

Hermione snarled instinctively at the idea of taking orders from him, but it was still cold and she
wasn't above demonstrating her magical superiority to the prince of the purebloods. " Incendio. "

They both sat down stiffly, idly tossing handfuls of dead leaves into the flames for a few minutes.
"Your leg," she said with exasperation, noticing the thigh of his trousers was once again wet with
fresh blood.

"Know any wandless healing magic?" he grimaced, looking at his leg with distaste.

"Why would I help you if I did?"

His shoulders dropped and she could see his jaw working as he seemed to struggle with something,
but he metaphorically, and perhaps literally, bit his tongue.

"Rewrap it at least," she finally snapped, "You'll be useless if you let it go on like that."

"Why would you care if I was?" he mimicked her earlier tone, looking up accusingly through his
pale blonde fringe.

"I don't."

"So stop nagging."

Hermione huffed and threw a twig at the fire hard enough to send up a shower of sparks.

She managed to bite her own tongue for a few minutes before the urge to insist on common sense
overcame her. "For fuck's sake, Malfoy— deal with it ."

"How? With what?" he snapped back, flinging his arms wide.

"Clean it, rewrap it, something. "

"Again, with—"

Hermione actually growled, "Fine, fine! Let's see it then."

He arched his brow in a perfectly articulated and devastating appraisal of her sanity.

She rolled her eyes in return. "Don't be a baby."

Glaring at her all the while, Draco undid his belt and fly before shifting awkwardly to shove his
trousers down to his knees.

The dark green boxer briefs, she noted, were very on brand. There was only a scant second to
contemplate the strange reality of seeing him in his skivvies however, before she was confronted
by the ugly sight of his bloody thigh. Two curved gashes intersected high on his leg, and layers of
dried and fresh blood mottled his pale skin, matting the fine, sparse hair. The shirt he'd wrapped
around it last night —one of Harry's, she saw now— was crusted with dried brown blood, bunched
up down at his knee.

It wasn’t as bad as Ron’s arm when he’d been splinched; Draco had gotten off lightly, really.

"Happy?" he demanded, not looking at the wound.

She hadn’t thought he could get any paler, but somehow he seemed to have managed it. She bit her
lip for a moment, considering. Tentatively, she extended her hand toward him. " Aguamenti."

A few drops of water trickled from her fingertips.

"Brilliant," he deadpanned.

Hermione flicked her wrist a few times and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. Ego was a
powerful motivator. She visualized her magic running through her, bright and electric, coalescing
to flow down her arm.

" Aguamenti ," she tried again. This time she conjured enough water to wash away the fresh blood,
though it didn’t have enough pressure to do anything about what had already dried.

Draco untied the shirt on his leg, stretching it out of its stiff, wadded shape.

"Wait," Hermione began rummaging in her bag until she caught hold of a small bottle and pulled it
out. "Don't get too excited, it's empty." She was able to conjure a little bit more water to fill it,
before stoppering and shaking it, "There was dittany in here before, but I used it all up on Harry
and Ron. Still, can't hurt…"

She poured the contents of the bottle over the gashes, and they both watched intently to see if it had
any effect. It looked marginally better after a moment as the angry red edges softened and seemed
to knit together at the ends. The cuts seemed shallow anyway. Just bloody.
They'd make for an interesting scar.

"It sort of tingles," he said dubiously, "Might be something."

Hermione snorted. "You're welcome, by the way."

Draco only hummed in response. He tied the makeshift bandage around his leg and righted his
trousers. "So what else have you got in that tacky bag? Seems suspiciously capacious."

"Like I'd tell you," she scoffed, tucking the bottle back inside.

"Why are you being so difficult?"

"Is that a real question?"

His lips thinned and he regarded her as though she were a particularly petulant toddler. "It really is.
As you may have noticed, neither of us is exactly a picture of vitality at the minute. We don't have
wands. We could be in the backwoods of fucking Narnia, for all we know. And oh, yeah, there's a
war going on. Do you really fancy going it alone? Because I don't."

She folded her arms. "A war that we're on opposite sides of, in case you forgot. How can I possibly
trust you? You could lead me anywhere."

"Seriously?" he asked. "Like my master plan was to apparate you away from Death Eater
headquarters where you were unarmed to do… what, exactly? Give me a little credit, Granger.
You're supposed to be the brains of your hapless band of righteous twats."

In response Hermione only folded her arms and glared.

“Do you want to go it alone?” he pushed.

“Honestly?”

At that moment, an ethereal silver stag bounded through the trees and drew up proudly beside
them. It shook its mighty antlered head and gazed down benevolently into Hermione’s wide eyes.
Her breath caught in her throat, waiting to hear Harry’s voice give some reassurance, direction,
information — something.

Nothing.

A small, spectral terrier followed a moment later, frisking around the hooves of the great stag. It
was only a scant few seconds later when they both dissolved into the ether.

Draco gaped. “What—?”

Hermione burst into tears.

“Uhh...” He raised a hand then pulled it back.

“They're— they’re okay,” she gasped between sobs, “They’re okay.”

Of course they couldn’t say anything; they didn’t know where she was or who she was with. But
Harry and Ron had let her know they’d made it. Wherever they were, they had wands and could
cast their patronuses. They must have escaped or fought their way out.

She cried until she was laughing. Overwhelmed with relief, she buried her face in her hands,
 hiccoughing, blubbering, laughing hysterically.

When the emotional deluge subsided, Hermione laid back on the ground, chest heaving. She hadn’t
even realized the weight that had been bearing down on her since last night. Not only fear for her
friends, but the horrible, heavy, creeping knowledge that Dumbledore’s riddles, the horcruxes,
Voldemort, all of it might be on her shoulders alone.

She never imagined feeling expendable could be so sweet.

Suddenly the sun was shining brighter and warmer. Yes, she was horribly sore, but she was alive,
she would mend. Sure, she might be in the middle of nowhere, wandless, with a Death Eater, but
that was fixable. Very fixable.

When she sat back up her hollow cheeks were mottled, her eyes were swollen, pine needles were
clinging to her absolutely everywhere, and her hair was a holy mess, but her face was lit with an
incandescent smile. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Chapter End Notes

Thanks to Aetherios for looking over the first bit of this story <3

This lil fest fic reallllly got away from me here, folks haha.
I'm posting it all in one shot, so if you keep on reading I'd love to hear your thoughts
as you go!
 Chapter 2
Chapter by smokybaltic

It was easy enough for them to agree to take the day to recover and strategize. Neither were in any
condition for a hike, or prepared to defend themselves wandlessly if they ran into trouble.

Beyond that, things got contentious.

Hermione reluctantly divulged the contents of her beaded bag — an assortment of mostly useless
odd ends that hadn’t made it into the tent. Mercifully, there was also some spare clothes and most
of the food she'd knicked from a muggle grocer the week before.

She had also reluctantly admitted to Draco that she could do little in the way of wandless magic.
Conjuring a spark and a bit of water wasn't much, but it was more than she’d expected. Over the
last year, she'd been practicing summoning and levitating charms with little success; her ultimate
goal had been to one day cast a wandless shield, but she hadn’t made much progress.

Still better than Draco though, which seemed like the critical thing even in their present
circumstances.

Draco's primary contribution, as far as Hermione was concerned, was conceding his uselessness.

He had nothing besides the clothes on his back, had never attempted wandless magic, and had no
apparent objectives beyond survival and wand acquisition. In his estimation, finding the Order
would be disastrous. Finding Death Eaters, even worse.

"If anyone's looking for me, I can guarantee you it's not a rescue operation," he insisted. "My lack
of enthusiasm was already a problem, and that was before I didn't identify Potter, or up and
disappeared with Potter's sidekick. What Bella did to you will look like playtime compared to what
she’ll do to me."

Breaking into Ollivander's shop was his first choice, relieving an unsuspecting witch or wizard of
their wand was plan B. They needed a larger objective, she insisted. Find Harry. Find the Order.
Find a place for him to hide, even.

He resisted, complained, and contradicted himself, apparently wholly committed to playing devil's
advocate to any and all suggestions.

She mentally retracted any and all complaints she'd ever had about Harry and Ron always
compelling her to be the one to come up with plans. They weren't lazy, she realized now, they were
blessedly deferential. Trusting. Compliant.

Draco, on the other hand, had opinions. Questions. Objections.

Trying to resist reasoning with him was like trying to leave off picking at a particularly irritating
scab. She knew she should leave it alone. It would go away if she could just ignore it. Once they
found their way to civilization they'd almost certainly be in muggle territory and he'd be at her
mercy. Yet the need to decisively be right compelled her to meet his absurd arguments with an
impassioned answer.

They ate a cold tin of beans and some scones. Draco complained over how stale the scones were
and she offered profuse, melodramatic apologies, promising she’d pass along his comments to the
chef.

It was all very conducive to Hermione refining the myriad reasons she had for disliking him.

He was not the cartoonish villain it had been easy to paint him as from the heights of Gryffindor
tower. No, there were subtleties and nuances to his repugnance that she had failed to appreciate
until now. Never had someone slipped so effortlessly under her skin, pricking at all her
vulnerabilities and provoking her temper.

She was used to being treated as a swot, a prig, even a mudblood. That, she could have dealt with.
Being treated as an idiot was new.

With all due humility, she knew she was clever. And, perhaps with exception of S.P.E.W., she was
confident she knew how to sell her ideas. So having all her theories and suggestions met with
profound skepticism was bracing, to say the least. There was also the distastefulness of somehow
having all the blame for their present circumstances laid at her feet

She shouldn’t have gotten caught. She should’ve just given Bellatrix what she wanted. She
shouldn’t have tried to apparate with another person’s wand. She should have been better prepared.

"Did you not have any plan for if you got separated? No contingencies? Nothing?" he demanded.

"No!" she bit out, "We never—" That was when she realized their trio had been separated before,
and had found their way back together. She could have smacked herself over the head for missing
such an obvious solution. "Ron! Ron? Ron!” she shouted, “If you can hear me, it's safe. It'd be safe
to come here. I just have no wand. Ron!"

Draco's estimation of her intelligence visibly dropped a few more pegs. "You know he’s not just
been hiding off in the bushes, yeah?"

"Oh for — Malfoy, I swear to— if this doesn't work I'm going to stay with you for the rest of the
day just so I can throttle you in your sleep tonight."

He raised an eyebrow, "Kinky."

"Ron?!" she called a little more desperately, "I would really like to get out of here. Ron! Come on
."

"Is this the plan now? Because I'm not loving it."

Hermione huffed. "Ron has Dumbledore’s deluminator. When he—" she hesitated "—when we got
separated before, Ron flicked it or something and could hear us mentioning his name and then was
able to apparate right to us. And Ron, if you could be Johnny-on-the-spot about it, I'd be very, very
grateful. "

With bated breath, Hermione looked through the trees, eyes combing the forest in anticipation of
Ron appearing. She was still tense with anticipation and muttering to Ron minutes later when
Draco dropped back onto his elbows, shaking his fringe from his eyes.

"A stupid toy made by ol’ Dumbles, in the hands of the Weasel. Seems to be working about as well
as I'd expect."

"Shove it."

"You know, I never understood how the Weasel fit with your little group,” he mused, toeing a stick
toward their dying fire. “Seems like deadweight to me.”

“So is that why you nearly killed him?”

Draco’s expression darkened. “That was an accident.”

“Right. Collateral damage on your mission to kill Dumbledore and release Death Eaters into a
school full of children. How could I possibly hold that against you?” she sniped.

“Look, I didn’t know the whole plan. Bit above my pay grade, if you can believe it. And He
wanted Dumbledore dead. If I didn’t do it then Snape would’ve. The only difference I could see
was in the likelihood my parents and I would be killed.” He met her eyes defiantly. “What would
you have done?”

“Something else,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Well, you didn’t do it in the end, did you? And you’ve lived to tell the tale.”

“So, gambling on the mercy of the Dark Lord, then? Of course! How could I've missed that?
Amazing the war’s gone on this long with strategy like that in play.”

Hermione’s fists were clenched so tight her nails were biting into her palms. “ Ron! For Merlin’s
sake, let’s go!” she yelled.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Right, well, you seem to have the screaming into the void thing covered, so
I’ll leave you to it.” He stood, shifting his weight experimentally, “I’m going to have a bit of a look
about, see if there’s a path or something.”

“God, just kill me now,” she muttered as he walked away, pulling her blankets tighter around her
shoulders.

The rest of the day was spent napping, and gathering wood for their fire and branches to use as
cover come nightfall. Hermione rested while Draco rambled.

He returned with red rimmed eyes. She suspected that while he was happy to complain to her at
length, any real feeling he might have would be reserved for solitude. Perhaps she ought to have
mocked him, but the sight of a man crying made her so earnestly uncomfortable that she ignored it
entirely.

She also pointedly ignored when he suddenly hissed in pain and dug his fingers viciously into his
left forearm. The Dark Mark. Voldemort was calling.

It gave her the heebie-jeebies.

In his walking, Draco had come across a more sheltered spot nearby to sleep and, further afield,
thought he’d seen a moor beyond the trees and heard a river a little ways off. They decided it
would be their objective first thing the next morning.

Hermione was confident they were likely to meet with other people along a river. Rivers lead to
things. Maybe they’d be able to spot a bridge and orient themselves from there. In any event, she
could do with an opportunity to wash.

As it began to grow dark, Hermione donned a navy hoodie of Harry's that she'd found in a plastic
bag in a far corner of her commodious beaded bag. Magnanimously, she handed over a gray hoodie
of Ron’s to Draco, as well as a spare pair of socks. A pair of well-worn jeans was proffered as well,
but that was apparently a bridge too far for him — the article itself as well as its previous owner
giving him equal pause.

If there were ever a Cause opened for her sainthood, Hermione felt sure her forbearance on this day
ought to be taken into consideration.

She contemplated sharing one of her two blankets with him. Her relentless conscience made a
nuisance of itself with maxims about fairness and integrity, but she found such bothersome qualms
could be assuaged by recollecting Draco’s previous objections to her ‘muddy’ germs.

Less easy to allay was the guilt she felt at taking time to recuperate while Harry and Ron were
God-knows-where doing God-knew-what.

They were together, they were in good enough shape to cast a patronus , she reassured herself over
and over. They could survive a few days without her.

She couldn’t be sure whether it was her conscience or her ego that needed to keep revisiting the
question of how they would fare without her, but she doggedly tried to set it aside. They were
probably worried sick, but there was nothing she could do about that unless the Deluminator
decided to be useful.

Control the things you can control, she repeated to herself as she drifted off to sleep, shivering and
casting wary glances at the stoic face of Draco Malfoy through the flames of their bonfire.

What would you have done?

Draco’s question played on a loop in her mind as they hiked toward the supposed river the next
morning, weaving through seemingly endless pine trees, kicking up the carpet of dead needles
underfoot.

Stealing someone's child from them, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally, was
probably the cruellest thing you could do to a person, objectively speaking. But she'd done it. She'd
done it to the two people she was supposed to care about most.

What wouldn't she do for her parents?

The forest was thinning as they moved steadily downhill and her legs ached with the strain of
bracing her weight over the precarious terrain. Finally it leveled out as the trees gave way to
scrubby coniferous bushes and a yellow sea of long, dead grass and heather spread over a rocky
moor.

What would you have done?

What did cohabiting with the Dark Lord and Bellatrix Lestrange entail? She couldn't quite picture
it. Did they sit down to dinner? How might they amuse themselves? She shuddered.

None of the Malfoys had looked exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the other night. She didn’t
know what their home might have looked like before all the other Death Eaters took up residence,
but the ‘gothic house of horrors’ vibe it had now seemed much more Bellatrix than Narcissa. She
tried to imagine what it would be like to come down for breakfast with her parents and have the
likes of Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback sitting across the table. To say nothing of
Voldemort himself. How long had they been there? A year? Possibly two?
What would you have done?

The wind blew harder over the open heath, but in the fleeting moments it relented, the tinkling
sound of water could clearly be heard. And rivers drew people. Hermione kept scanning the
horizon, waiting to see a visitors' pavilion or a fire lookout on a nearby ridge. Maybe some cars
parked at a scenic viewpoint.

She thought about Ron and Katie and Dumbledore.

Poison was historically known as a woman’s weapon, a way to dispense death from afar. The
poisoned mead had been an objectively terrible plan. The cursed necklace that had nearly killed
Katie was a proxy given to a proxy by another proxy. As for Dumbledore… According to Harry,
Draco hadn’t been able to bring himself to finish him even as the old wizard had stood unarmed
and apparently complacent. Draco had, in fact, been lowering his wand.

He had failed his mission, but how hard did he really try? He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t
incompetent.

He clearly didn’t have the stomach to commit murder, whatever the stakes.

What would you have done?

Something else. She would have done something else.

She just wasn’t sure what.

And she was beginning to worry she might’ve done what Draco couldn’t.

That insecurity was perhaps why, a couple hours later, she found herself pressing a wad of
sphagnum moss into his hand, gritting out “It’s antiseptic”, and restraining herself from launching
into a full explanation of what that meant and how best to apply it to his wound. It had been
clenched in her fist since she’d found it first thing that morning, its crushed appearance evidence of
her indecision over whether she should give it to him or just let it fall unnoticed to the ground.

He took it without thanking her.

Karma also did not see fit to show her any immediate gratitude. As it turned out, the sound of
rushing water they’d been tracking was not a river.

The mystery of how the sound of water could remain constant even as the moor continued to roll
out unbroken to distant peaks was solved when, without warning, they found themselves nearly
tripping down a rocky precipice.

A narrow gully nearly four meters deep cut through the heath, concealing a fast flowing little
stream no more than two meters across.

They had probably been meandering alongside it for some time.

It was a precarious climb down over moss-covered rocks. Draco had gone down first and hovered
below her. She honestly wasn’t sure if he meant to catch her if she fell, or simply wanted a front
row seat for any misfortune that might befall her.

Stubborn, gnarled little trees still bare of leaves provided some useful handholds but Hermione still
had some near misses. She had thought she already ached in every conceivable way, but by the
time she reached the bottom with limbs atremble and several broken, bleeding fingernails, she had
discovered fresh agonies.

The stream was clear but frigid. She had to brace herself just to plunge her forearms in and splash
water on her face. Her fingers were burning with the cold by the time she’d washed and wrung out
her jeans, knickers, and socks.

Draco accepted Ron’s jeans as if he were doing her a favour, which allowed him to wash his blood
soaked trousers along with his makeshift bandage. 'Wash’ was perhaps a bit of a generous
description of the tentative dip-and-swirl process he employed, but she supposed it was likely his
first attempt at washing anything manually in the whole course of his life.

It probably did more for her entertainment than it did for the cleanliness for his clothes.

Dressed now in jeans, a hoodie, and his suit jacket, Draco cut an interesting figure. The jeans were
too big and had to be cinched dramatically at the waist with his belt,and the knees were nearly
worn through. The hoodie had a stain of indeterminate origin on it and it bunched up under the
sleeves of his suit jacket. On the plus side, he appeared deeply disturbed by his current state and
she half expected him to wail ‘my father will hear about this!’ at any moment.

“My kingdom for a camera.” It slipped out. She hadn’t meant to joke with him.

He was so out of context here she had to remind herself who she was dealing with. Fortunately he
found it more offensive than humorous, scowling fiercely.

“Yes, well, if your friend were a little less fat and poor, I wouldn’t look so ridiculous.”

There he is , she thought. Different clothes, same arsehole.

They took a conversational hiatus after that.

Hermione considered trying to cast a drying charm on their clothes, but wandless magic was
extraordinarily draining and she didn’t want to risk not being able to start a fire or conjure clean
water to drink later. She did, however, do herself the kindness of casting a discreet scourgify on her
knickers. The loo in the tent had been makeshift but she missed it fiercely. She felt like she was
caked in grime and sweat and fear itself.

With wet clothes slung over their shoulders, they made their way downstream, walking single file
along the ledge beside the stream. It was almost hypnotic. Time lost meaning as her mind filled
with the sound of running water, and her world shrank to the meter of wet rock before her and the
flexing soles of Draco’s outlandishly posh shoes.

The sky was grey, but it was warmer than it had been in weeks, and they were protected from the
wind. The days were growing longer, but Hermione’s strength flagged well before twilight. She
made an excuse of coming upon a bit of a sheltered recess to suggest they stop for the day.

The gully had been growing steadily wider and more shallow, rising now to only head height, but
the protection it provided from the elements was a more than reasonable inducement.

Hermione also found the idea of being hidden from view quite comforting; after months of
obsessively setting wards and protective enchantments around their camp, the lack of magical
defenses was unnerving. She wanted to be found on her own terms.

A small, sputtering fire was the best they could manage with the scanty scrub and bits of green
wood. It smoked horribly and wasn’t likely to do much to dry their clothes.
They found spots to prop themselves up, leaning into earthy corners which only utter exhaustion
could render the least bit comfortable. They ate pickles, tinned peas, and the last of the stale scones
in silence.

Hermione would have done terrible, terrible things for a book.

Instead she closed her eyes to ward against the tension building in the silence and the temptation to
ask all the questions that had been accumulating through the day, filling her throat till she was
nearly choked by curiosity.

What had he been doing for the last year? At Hogwarts? Did he know anything of her friends
there? What was the other side planning? Whose side was he on? Why wasn’t he calling her a
mudblood? Was this just a fleeting truce? Were they the Germans and the British, Christmas
1914?

Did he know about the horcruxes? The Hallows?

What was making his brow furrow and his lips twitch over and over?

And most of all: Why? Why? Why?

She fell asleep none the wiser, and dreamt of trying to write her N.E.W.Ts while a dragon laid
waste to the classroom.

Progress was slow. The sky held enough of a threat of rain to hurry their pace but the terrain was
all hills, and along with being prodigiously sore, neither Hermione nor Draco were accustomed to
walking great distances.

Silence, too, was becoming wearying.

Alone with her thoughts, Hermione was working herself up to a full-blown anxiety attack. There
were a thousand unpleasant things to consider and not one thing she could do about any of them.
Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore and, tugging nervously at the end of her braid, let herself give
a cautious voice to some of the questions that had been nagging at her.

“What happened… before we left?”

Draco startled a little at her breach of the peace but only returned a questioning look.

She pushed on, “I wasn’t exactly alert, but I know there were spells being cast. I— I thought I
heard my name.” She was studying the horizon, unwilling to let him see how badly she needed an
answer.

“I’m not sure exactly,” he said slowly, “Bella was working on the goblin. It seemed like she might
be going back for you but there was a commotion down the hall and suddenly everyone was
distracted. Maybe, if Potter and Weasley really did escape, it could've been them. I don’t know
who all were down in the dungeon except them. And Lovegood. But—”
“Luna?” Hermione interrupted.

“Yeah, so I heard. Anyway... leaving seemed prudent. Next thing I knew it felt like I’d been side-
alonged by a concussed troll.”

“With me.” She peeked over and saw him wince.

“With you.”

Apparently, further explanation of that most interesting point would not be forthcoming.

They met with a steep bit of hill climbing and lapsed back into silence. Hermione had to work hard
to keep up with Draco’s long strides, but she grit her teeth and pressed on. She wasn’t sure if Draco
would wait up for her if she fell behind, and she refused to find out the hard way.

When the going got a bit easier again she decided to push her luck.

“What about Hogwarts?”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Can we not?”
“You were there?” she asked. She took his silence for assent. “My friends? Are any of them…?”
She held her breath through a long pause.

“No. Not that I know of.”

She thought that was all he was likely to say, but after a couple minutes he volunteered, “I didn’t
think he had it in him, but Longbottom’s been giving them hell.”
Hermione ducked her head as a wide smile spread over her face. Good ol’ Nev.

Just about everybody underestimated Neville Longbottom, but no one more so than Severus Snape.
The idea of Neville defying the traitorous, usurping headmaster positively warmed the cockles of
her heart. She couldn’t wait to wrap him up in a hug and tell him how proud she was. It was the
happiest thought she'd entertained in months and she turned it over fondly for hours.

When they stopped in the early afternoon, it was with an ostensible agreement that it would be a
short break, and a tacit understanding that they wouldn’t be going any further today.

While the effects of the Cruciatus had mostly passed, aside from an occasional shaking of her
hands, Hermione was sore and exhausted and had yet to see anything that remotely suggested other
humans were nearby.

They were at a middling level of elevation and trees were stunted and relatively sparse. It was a
lousy place to camp, but needs must.

As she sat back against the trunk of a hawthorn she began a mental review of everything that might
be relevant to finding their way out of this wilderness, turning every scrap of information over in
her mind for the umpteenth time. Her eyes were beginning to droop when her drowsy reverie was
interrupted.

“I’m bored.” Draco, who had been laying back in the grass rolled over to his stomach to look at
her.

“Only boring people get bored,” she replied reflexively.

“That’s such a boring thing to say,” he whined.

“Well, that’s your problem.”

“Bollocks. This is objectively boring. You’re bored too. You have to be.”

Hermione shook her head resolutely.

On top of being a spoilt git and only child, she knew he was accustomed to being the centre of
attention amongst their peers. He’d always had to make snarky little comments in class to try and
get a laugh, make ostentatious maneuvers on the quidditch pitch, and at mealtimes he could be
seen holding court at the Slytherin table.

After two days away from his usual sycophantic fixes his ego was probably going into withdrawal.
She could practically feel the neediness rolling off him in waves.

“We could-” he started.

“Ha! We will be doing nothing. I’d rather let my brain fully atrophy than subject myself to any
more of your childish antagonism than I absolutely have to.”

His eyebrows drew together and there was a wry twist to his lips. “Oh, I’m the antagonist here? So,
you really do just have zero self awareness then?”

She folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. She was not going to let him bait her.
“Look, I know you think I’m the literal devil or whatever, but-”
Hermione’s mind flashed to her fireside ruminations from their first night and her eyes narrowed.
“Are you using legilimency on me?” she demanded.

“Legilimency? Why would I- wait- you actually think I’m the devil ? I said that for dramatic
effect,” he sounded amazed, “ Granger. ”

“I mean, not literally, obviously. Just, it was…. A metaphor. Or something.” Well, this was
embarrassing.

“You find me that intimidating, do you?” The level of smugness was off the charts.”Tell me: are
you worried I’m reading your mind right now?”

Hermione’s mind instantly began running through a veritable catalogue of wildly inappropriate
thoughts, top secret information, and embarrassing memories.

“Oh, fuck off.” She was sure he couldn’t actually perform legilimency. Mostly sure. 94%.

“There are much bigger baddies than me for you to worry about.”

“Trust me, I am not worried about you.”

He smiled a cheshire grin and bounced his eyebrows, crawling forward a few feet, “Not even a
little bit?”

“No,” she stuck her chin out stubbornly.

“Good. Then you can stop acting like a scared little firstie.”

“I am not!” She crossed her arms petulantly.

“See? Always so childish.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re a woman of extremes. First I’m the devil, now we’ve gone the other way.” He crossed the
short distance between them as he spoke, settling himself cross legged beneath the canopy of her
tree.

“Hard to believe I wanted to deprive myself of the pleasure of your conversation.”

He blithely disregarded her sarcasm. “I know. Now, tell me something interesting. What is it
you’ve been up to?”
“Ha! No.”

“Have you been following quidditch?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Read anything good lately?”

“I’m not doing this.”

“You know, I was thinking about buying a few more house elves. Maybe one to see to each of my
brooms and a couple extra to tend to my wardrobe.”

“That’s just… you wouldn’t .”

“I might. The longer I sit here thinking about it, the better it sounds. If someone doesn’t distract me
soon, I’ll start firming up plans.”

“What kind of blackmail is that? You need attention so desperately you’re willing to enslave
intelligent, powerful magical beings to do it? Have you ever even had a proper conversation with a
house elf?”

And with that she was off and running on her S.P.E.W. spiel, determined to wipe that smug look
off his face. He lobbed strawman arguments and faulty premises at her until she was red in the
face. Until she finally realized that he wasn’t invested in his side of the argument at all, and she’d
just given him exactly what he wanted.

She was spitting mad. Mad enough to launch into a diatribe about entitled aristocracy and their no-
account, morally repugnant offspring. Which led to a heated argument about the muggle class
system.

Before she knew what was what, the day was dying away and she was making herself comfortable
beside a fire, eating lentil stew and defending the bloody Ministry as she made a case for wealth
redistribution within the context of a meritocracy.

What a fucking Slytherin .

 Chapter 3
Chapter by smokybaltic

"It's going to rain," Hermione eyed the ominous clouds rolling over a nearby ridge as she secured
her curls into a high bun. They had been walking for hours.

Draco looked over his shoulder at her, "In England? In March?!"

"Sarcasm noted. And not appreciated. We need a plan here."

"Are there options besides sitting under a tree? Perhaps we could retire to the solarium? Or hole up
in a cozy little coffeeshop? Do you fancy a biscuit and some tea?"

Hermione scowled. “I must have done terrible, terrible things in my past life to deserve you. I
must’ve been Oliver bloody Cromwell.”
“You know, Cromwell brought stability and democracy to England. I mean, we could talk about
how he executed his objectives, but it's a bit simplistic to-

“I know that! You think I don’t know that?” she huffed, “It’s just... an expression. Must you
always-”

“Insist on factual accuracy? Sorry, am I stepping on your toes there?” He looked positively
chuffed.

Hermione groaned. Her palms would be scarred from how viciously she’d been digging her nails
into them over the last few days. She dearly missed the way her friends would just let her talk
without picking up on every little sodding thing.

"Can you just accept my despair over my bad karma at face value, or do you really want to parse
the minutiae of the civil wars?" she snapped, "Debate the proper role of parliament perhaps?"

"The good times just keep coming! Would you prefer the side of the Roundheads or the
Cavaliers?"

Hermione raised a hand toward him and her face became a mask of concentration before she
exclaimed, " Silencio! "

He looked at her pityingly. "Mmmmm nope."

Her shoulders sagged. "Son of a bitch. Well, I am going to head that way-” she gestured toward a
forested area near the base of the long, low ridge they’d been walking alongside “-to go sit alone.
In silence. Maybe dwell on my impending doom and the pointlessness of existence. You know, to
bolster my spirits after all our delightful conversation.”

Draco shook his head and laughed, “Oh, Granger, you don’t even know what fun is, do you?”

Hermione stopped dead, “Are you having fun ?”

He recoiled, looking genuinely alarmed, "No. Obviously not."

"Okay,” she looked him up and down suspiciously, “Good."

It began drizzling not long after and almost as soon as they reached the cover of the trees, the
downpour began in earnest. Despite her earlier determination to enjoy some well-deserved
solitude, she found herself sitting in the dirt with Draco, eating cold tinned tomato soup.

Along with everything else, her feet were beginning to ache as the day wore down. She glared at
Draco’s dragonhide dress shoes which looked immaculate and seemed to be giving him no hint of
discomfort. Undoubtedly, he’d had them professionally charmed within an inch of their lives. The
prick.

She had spent so much time in the woods over the last year that all this really shouldn’t have felt
like such a hardship, but between the conditions and the company, her present circumstances made
tent-living with her friends seem like a luxury vacation. Draco, who informed her often and at
length that he had never abased himself with a standard of living beneath the conditions at
Hogwarts (which, in his view, were practically squalid), had an even more dire view of their
circumstances.

She introduced him to the game ‘Twenty Questions’ just to shut him up. Unfortunately his sense of
humour was not conducive to fair play.

“Is this person a man?” she’d asked. “There’s no evidence of that,” he replied.

The answer had been Gilderoy Lockheart.

“Is it a spell that’s used often?” she’d asked. “You attempt it daily, I assume,” he’d responded.

The answer was Crinus Muto . A spell used to transfigure one’s hair.

They kept reasonably dry by retreating deep into the trees, sitting with their backs against a
towering cathedral oak. The rain pattered persistently against the canopy of leaves overhead as it
grew dark, though it wasn’t nearly as cold as it had been the day before. Reluctantly they decided
they’d get no further today.

A fire was built and Hermione pulled her blankets from the depths of her beaded bag to lay over
her legs. She fished out a tin of chickpea dhal that she nestled into the embers to heat through.

“Are you holding out on me, Granger?” Draco cocked a brow.

“As much as I possibly can,” she responded, with no idea what he was referring to.
“I believe I heard a very promising clinking coming from that hideous little bag of yours.”

She rolled her eyes. Of course he’d pick up on that.

In the immediate confusion that followed the appearance of Kingsley’s patronus at Bill and Fleur’s
wedding, she’d impulsively stuffed whatever was in reach into her bag, including several useless
paperweight wedding favours, a handful of utensils, and a few bottles of wine. When she’d taken
inventory weeks later she’d thought to perhaps save the wine for Christmas, but unfortunately, she
and Harry had been occupied when the holiday rolled around and they’d never got to it.

“This is no time to be drinking,” she held the bag a little closer.

“So you do have something.”

“Just a couple of bottles of wine. Be happy with your dhal, you ungrateful twat.”
“You work hard to earn that reputation as a prig, don’t you?”

She pursed her lips, “One day very, very soon, me having access to that wine may be the only thing
standing between you and a grisly death. You best leave it.”

Draco snorted, "You don't have a wand. What are you going to do, fight me? You’re half my size.”
A little smile curled his lips and he leaned in a bit, almost like he was daring her to give it a go.

“Yes, but consider how much time I’ve dedicated to fantasizing about it; all the scenarios, details,
and contingencies that I’ve considered in painstaking detail.”

“Well obviously I knew you fantasized about me," he waggled his eyebrows, "I just never knew
how graphic you would get. Naughty little thing.”

Hermione cursed her word choice and gagged dramatically, “If we spent fifty years lost out here, I
would be fantasizing about phallic cloud formations before I ever thought about you like that ."

He was baiting her, she knew he was baiting her, but somehow it was impossible to resist rising to
it. She only prayed that would be the end of the repartee because she could already feel her cheeks
beginning to heat.

The worst of it was, that loathe as she was to admit it, he had actually featured in an elicit fantasy
or two of hers over the years. She hated herself for it at the minute, but the fact of the matter was
that Hogwarts was a relatively small school and her options had been limited. And he was fit. So
sue her.

He looked at her appraisingly, “I think we both know you'd be gagging for it inside six months, a
year tops."

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to summon her strength. And cover her blush.

Thankfully he let the joke die, although they had to give up playing Twenty Questions shortly after
because his answers became all innuendo, most of it relating to his anatomy. And then ‘phallic
cloud formations’.

When it came time to sleep they took advantage of the large pines nearby. Before heading off on
the horcrux hunt Hermione had skimmed a couple of books on wilderness survival, and she
recalled that pine trees that had branches all the way to the ground generally had pockets of space
at the trunk that were relatively waterproof and protected from the wind. Using branches and sticks
they were able to cocoon themselves at the base of adjacent trees, heads near the trunk and feet
sticking out near the fire built between them.

The midges were terrible but it was definitely warmer. With a blanket pulled up over her head
Hermione went to sleep with buzzing in her ears, trying to think of new and better insults to hit her
git of a travelling companion with tomorrow.

Poncy whey-faced manchild , maybe.

The dreary weather persisted through the night, giving way to a gray and misty morning so
stereotypically English it inspired a desperate craving for Hermione’s favourite Earl Grey tea out
of sheer patriotism.

When she emerged from her tree she couldn’t decide whether she was getting more wet from the
heavy fog or the rain. Still, as much as she would have liked to find a sheltered spot where she
could huddle by a fire, she knew if they didn’t try to make some progress in the rain then they’d
never make any progress at all. It wasn’t exactly the dry season.
They tried to keep to the trees at first but found it was too easy to get disoriented and waste time
meandering back and forth. Beyond the forest, the wind gusted and the rocky ground was slick.
Hermione pulled up the hood of her jumper and crossed her arms, hunching her shoulders against
the weather. It backfired almost immediately when she slipped and fell hard on her arse because
she couldn’t get her hands out to catch herself.

Draco made very little attempt to hide his amusement as she glared up at him from the mud, nor
through her subsequent struggle to regain her footing. She suspected his ridiculous shoes were also
charmed to be slip-proof given how carelessly he was striding along. Because he wasn’t obnoxious
enough.

She trudged on, now with a wounded ego and an arse that was bruised and damp.

Her anxiety was growing with every hour that passed. It had been four days now that she’d been
out here and there was not nearly enough to distract her from considering all the things that might
have gone wrong or might be about to go wrong. And here she was, in the back of beyond,
absolutely powerless to do anything but keep walking, and it wasn’t even like that was going well.

The fog continued to limit their visibility and they hadn’t come upon anything even remotely
promising. Hermione would have rejoiced at the sight of a piece of litter at this point, something,
anything to indicate they had hope of human contact soon. Gradually the terrain softened,
devolving into inches of sludge that sucked at their feet with every step.

Draco made several attempts to lure her into more verbal sparring but not only was she in no mood
to argue about the merits of divination or discuss what potions might improve her hair or defend
the Sorting Hat, but she also chafed at the idea of serving as his entertainment. Most people who
knew her knew enough to be properly intimidated in the face of her righteous fury, but he seemed
to court it. Like he enjoyed being a spectator to her blistering rants.

It was maddening.

It was also proving irresistible. The alternative to talking was thinking. Speculating.
Remembering.

It really wasn’t long before she, of her own volition, was trying to one-up him on knowledge of
ancient runes. Then arithmancy theory.

She guessed it was midafternoon when the rain eased and the fog burned off enough to reveal they
were walking in a rolling glen, surrounded by sweeping mountains and hills. Draco suggested they
head toward a forested hill that wasn’t too far off, in the hope they could climb it
tomorrow. Hermione dearly wanted to object to his plan, because it was his plan, but restrained
herself in the interest of sitting down and getting out of the wind and damp sooner rather than
later.

With the weather being what it was they walked quite a ways through the trees until they found
some large pines that would once again do for shelter. They built a fire, prepared their sleeping
arrangements, and warmed up a bit of food.

Perversely, after all the day’s needling and bickering, Hermione found herself being very civil with
Draco. Almost more than civil. Borderline friendly.

She simply didn’t have the mental energy to keep arguing and her poor addled brain was
apparently mistaking continued proximity for camaraderie. At least, that was her working theory.
When he suggested how she might improve her sleeping spot, making the little pocket more
spacious and sturdy, she actually thanked him. And then did it. And thought it was clever.

It was troubling.

She couldn’t deny that she felt a bit traitorous as she sat beside a cozy little fire chatting away with
Draco Malfoy over lentil curry. She still muttered to Ron periodically, hoping the Deluminator
would perform a second miracle for them, but she cringed at the thought of what this would look
like if he did come popping in all of a sudden.

As the evening wound down she grew quieter as the guilt began crowding out any inclination for
conversation. It wasn’t all that late when she decided to crawl into her little piney cocoon, but she
didn’t lay awake long.

This- all this- was exhausting.

Hermione blinked awake in confusion. It was still dark and their little fire, such as it was, had gone
completely out. She tensed, listened intently, unsure of what might have woken her. The wind had
whipped up and was rustling the trees as it blew down and around the ridges and hills, like a river
rushing through.

There was something.

She strained to hear. There was a little noise. Something close. A grunt. It came again and she sat
up as much as she could, squinting into the darkness. When she heard it again, she shook off her
blankets and, quietly as she could, crawled out from under her tree.

The force of the wind surprised her when she emerged. Cautiously, she bent to pick up a fist-sized
rock and hefted it, ready to strike at anything that might lunge in the darkness. She crept forward,
eyes combing the forest for movement.

She hadn’t gone far when she caught the flash of a small light darting between trees. Her heart
leapt into her throat and she hurried forward to tuck herself behind a large trunk. Peeking out she
spotted it again, a little further off. Slinking forward as stealthily as she could she waded through
some low bushes that caught at her clothes, slowing her down. She grit her teeth as she felt
brambles scraping at her hands and ankles.

There was a noise, much further off this time- she was losing ground. She made a run, lightly as
she could, darting between trees.

It had to be Draco. What was he doing?

She lost sight of him for a few moments and nearly jumped out of her skin when the scream of a
fox came from not far behind her. When she saw his light again she rushed toward it, determined to
catch up. It was gone for a moment, then reappeared further to her right than she’d anticipated.
Distracted, her foot caught on a root and sent her sprawling into the dirt, her knee slamming into a
rock. She cursed and scrambled to her feet, disoriented.

The roar of the wind rattling through the branches was the only thing discernible over the blood
rushing in her ears. She looked around wildly.

“Malfoy?” she called tentatively at first, then louder, “Malfoy?”

Taking cautious steps forward she hollered, “Malfoy!”

All at once she saw the light and heard a noise- in opposite directions. She started off in one
direction then hesitantly tracked back. Which way had she come from? She held her rock aloft,
swivelling her head this way and that.

“Granger?” his voice was more discernible now, but where was it coming from? Was the wind
playing tricks on her?
When she saw the light she hurried toward it, picking her way over roots and through brush as well
as she could, calling, “Here! Stop! I’m here!”

“Granger!”

He sounded close but looked far off. She drew up short, uncertain now, balancing on the balls of
her feet. The damned fox screamed again.

“Malfoy, you fucking arsehole!” Her heart felt like it was about to beat out of her chest.

“Granger!”

Her head whipped around as he appeared suddenly, almost directly behind her.

“You daft bint!” he skidded to a stop, panting, “What are you doing?”

“Me? What are you doing?”

“Merlin.” He pressed a hand into his cramping side, trying to catch his breath.

“Why are you running around the woods in the middle of the bloody night?” she demanded, “And
why-”

The light reappeared, maybe a dozen meters off.

“But how-? You're here and it's-” She looked between Draco and the light, “How can it be…”

“That? That? ” He jabbed a finger toward the now stationary ball of light, disbelieving. “You went
running off after that ? A bleeding mystery light in the woods?! That’s a hinkypunk , Granger.
Where’s your head? You could’ve been killed!”

“A hinkypunk,” she whispered as her heart plummeted.

“It could’ve been Snatchers! What were you thinking?”

“I-I-I thought-” She didn’t know what she had been thinking. She had been so sure it was Draco
and she’d just gone on instinct. It was impossible to say whether she was more shaken or mortified.

If Harry had done the same thing, she would’ve murdered him.

“ Merlin, Morgana, and the Four fucking Founders , how have you survived this long? This is
why no one respects bloody Gryffindor. Holy shit , Granger.”

“I… thought it was you,” she said weakly.

“You thought I’d kept a lantern, what? Tucked down my trousers? You didn’t think to check where
I was sleeping?”

“It just happened, I didn’t have time…”

“Is that a rock? What the fuck was that going to do?! I can’t- I can’t even-” He scrubbed a hand
over his face and took a deep breath, “Alright. We need to find our way back. If you could keep a
handle on your batshit Gryffindor impulses till then, I’d appreciate it.”

“Fuck you,” she spat before she stalked past him. Not her most eloquent rebuttal, but it wasn’t
exactly her finest moment either.

Slowly they picked their way back to where they’d camped for the night, with Draco muttering
variations of ‘fucking Gryffindors’ and ‘a fucking hinkypunk ’ and ‘get yourself fucking killed’ all
the way. She'd never seen him so angry.

For her part, Hermione muttered away to Ron about how this would be an absolutely smashing
time to come fetch her.

Thankfully the hinkypunk didn’t continue its pursuit. Finding their way back was painstaking as
they struggled to make out the path they’d trampled in the dark, but eventually they made it.

Humiliated, exhausted, covered in mud, and, honestly, quite rattled, Hermione crawled back under
her tree desperate for sleep.

Which made Draco following her in all the more distressing.

“What do you think you’re doing? You’re over there,” she pointed emphatically toward the tree
he’d been sleeping under.

“Not anymore. Because someone apparently needs a babysitter.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Budge up,” he crowded her back closer to the trunk, “And I want a blanket.”

“Ha! I don’t think so,” she clutched at her blankets as she scooted as far from him as she could
manage in the small space.

“I’ve earned a blanket,” he yanked at the tattered corner of a thin plaid, “Give it.”

“You’ll tear it!”

“Better give it then,” he jerked at it again and she reluctantly let him tug it from her grip. “Now,”
he settled on the other side of the trunk, pulling his hard-won blanket up to his chin, “If you see
any more evil, impish varmints please try to refrain from throwing yourself at them. Same goes for
Snatchers, manticore, red caps, and dragons, in case you weren’t clear.”

“You’re such a prick.”

She could hear his smirk as he drawled, “You’re welcome, by the way.”
 Chapter 4
Chapter by smokybaltic

This little odyssey needed to end.

Hermione felt certain she had now spent more time with Draco Malfoy than any human was ever
meant to.

There was a reason the rich built their houses so bloody big, she realized now: it was an ingenious
remedy to the ill of having to bear one another’s company. Boarding school was another inspired
solution.

One day he would marry some wealthy, insufferable pureblood witch who would have her own
wing of the manor, and he would have his, and that woman (who, in Hermione’s mind, was
somehow both longsuffering and a stuck up harpy) would surely not spend half as much time with
Draco as Hermione now had. Nor would their horrible, spoilt, inbred offspring.

The git hadn’t said a word about the hinkypunk.

They had packed up their things and built their fire back up enough to heat a tin of beans. Hermione
filled two empty tins with conjured water and brewed pine needle tea, something she explained
was not only safe but healthful. He accepted her assurances without question. They agreed on a
strategy for the day - climbing the least formidable looking hill - with almost no debate. He asked,
politely , if she wouldn’t mind stowing his suit jacket in her bag since the weather seemed fine. He
offered to carry the bag.

He was coddling her.

She could feel him watching her now as if she were at constant risk of doing something stupid.
Like she was a liability. Like he needed to be kind to her lest she become overwhelmed. Obviously,
he now thought she was so utterly incompetent that she was unequal to his antagonism.

Even Ron (she loved Ron, truly she did, and thought he had many wonderful qualities), but even
Ron rose to the level of being worth aggravating in Draco’s estimation. It was humiliating. Where
was the fucking respect?

It would not do.

It absolutely would not do.

One way or another she would show the condescending arsehole that she was more than capable of
handling herself, both mentally and physically.

She began with a long winded and painfully detailed treatise on the Principle of Artificianimate
Quasi-Dominance as they moved through the trees at the foot of the hill. He nodded along, asked
pertinent questions, and civilly held branches aside so she could pass.

When they reached a particularly steep incline he had the audacity to offer her his hand. She
slapped it away.

“I’m fine,” she said tersely, even as she fairly had to crawl up the steep slope.
He kept checking in to see if she wanted to stop for a rest or food.

She wished he would just make fun of her for the damn hinkypunk already.

Keeping up the pace her ego demanded was exhausting. She had yammered at Draco all morning
about the most complex and obscure topics she could think of. She made deliberately outrageous
claims. All she got back was polite interest and good manners.

She was reaching her limit.

She was spoiling for a fight.

When they stopped for a rest on a bit of relatively flat grass she watched through narrowed eyes as
he complacently ran his hand over a patch of little snowdrop flowers, apparently lost in thought.

Smug.

She wanted to punch him in his stupid, pointy face.

“Why are you acting like this?” the question burst into the silence, laced with all the venom she’d
been storing up since the morning.

He had the audacity to look surprised.

“Like what?” he puzzled.

“All… nice,” she sneered, “Fake. I know you think I’m lower than dirt. Why put on this stupid
show?”

“It’s not a show.”

“Please don’t insult my intelligence. You’re a Death Eater, I’m a mudblood. You’ve never been
anything but a prick to me before this.”

His brow furrowed, “Is that what you want?”

“I just don’t see the point in pretending we don’t hate each other.”

The catalyst might have been her bruised ego, but the words and the vitriol that were pouring out of
her had been simmering for days. Some of it for years.

He was quiet for a minute and didn’t look at her when he finally said, “It’s never been… personal.
I don’t hate you.”

“My blood is pretty fucking personal.” she snapped.

He didn’t answer.

“Are you going to stop it?”

“Stop being nice?”

“Yeah.”

“I already said I don’t hate you. I don’t have any particular desire to be mean to you if that’s what
you’re after.”
“The mark on your arm says otherwise,” she persisted. “Come on, you don’t expect me to believe
you’re going to ruin your perfect seven-year streak of being an utter arse to me.”

He didn’t meet her anger but did rise to the level of sarcasm. “What can I say? It was a good run,
but I’m done.”

Hermione huffed and crossed her arms. He was staring down at a little snowdrop he’d plucked,
twisting it between his finger and thumb. Whatever this schtick was, it was grating on her nerves.
She continued to stew, considering her next line of attack.

It was preempted when Draco inexplicably volunteered “I’m a Falmouth Falcons fan. Do you
know why?”

“I don’t think there’s anything I could possibly care about less,” she sneered.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Alright. Well... it’s because my father is a Falmouth fan. That’s how it is
when you’re a kid, right? I’ve had a bedroom full of Falmouth and Slytherin gear my whole life.
One of my best mates has always been for Kenmare and we’re constantly having a go at each other
over it. But the thing is... even though you feel like you live and die by your team and talk all kinds
of shit and everyone takes it so seriously- I mean, people riot - but deep down, you know it’s just a
game.”

“Okay..?”

He paused, considering before he continued, “Did you know I tried to be friends with Potter?”

“Bollocks.” The claim caught her completely off guard. This conversation was going to give her
whiplash.

“It’s true, before first year started,” he grimaced, “I recognized him in Diagon and introduced
myself. He was famous and that made him interesting, so like a good little Malfoy I thought I’d
make a useful alliance. I didn’t give a bent knut if he brought down the Dark Lord.”

“What happened?” Hermione asked, bewildered.

“Little twat wouldn’t so much as shake my hand.”

“He’s always had good instincts,” she smiled a little to herself, then recollected the matter at hand,
“Sorry, is there a point to any of this?”

“I’m a Falmoth fan. It was my team, it was my family’s team, so it was the best team. Same as our
Hogwarts house or our county or our Family Crest. I didn’t think blood status was really any
different. I thought my team was the best but… it was just supposed to be a game.”

“It’s never been a game ,” she spat, repulsed.

“No. I was… naive.”

“You were a cruel, bigoted arsehole, is what you were.”

He was quiet for another moment, his jaw working. “It was just… easy. It was easy and it was fun.
And everyone loved it- my father, Snape, my housemates. And honestly, in school, it felt like an
even match. You and Potter generally gave back as good as you got- people still think I bought my
way on to the quidditch team because of you. You punched me. I got transfigured into a rodent and
bashed about by a professor . Potter almost killed me and got a spot of detention for his trouble. I
know you just see me as an evil prick, but I didn’t want anyone to get seriously hurt. That’s why
I...”

“What? Why what? ” she prompted.

“Why I warned you at the World Cup.”

She stared hard at him, disbelieving. The cheek!

He was fixated on the little flower that he’d mangled with all his fidgeting.

After another moment he continued, “Before I knew what was happening people were dying, the
Dark Lord was in my house, my father was in prison, and it was too late. Now I’m a full-fledged
Death Eater and a blood traitor. I’m fucked. Utterly fucked. So I think you can rest easy...justice
will be served.”

Hermione scoffed, “You can’t honestly expect me to believe this is all just some kind of
misunderstanding, that you’re now miraculously reformed and have nothing against us ‘dirty little
mudbloods’ now that you’ve had a turn of bad luck.”

“No. I don’t expect you to believe that. I expect you to believe that I don’t care,” his temper finally
flared, “I had a good life that’s gone because of stupid, pointless bullshit. I’m seventeen and my
best prospects at the minute are Azkaban or living as a fugitive. I don’t give a flying fuck what
anyone else is doing and I couldn’t care less who anyone’s parents are. Think what you want, but I
don’t care.”

“Oh how wonderful!” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “That does so very much good now .”

His fist clenched, finally crushing the snowdrop. “Would you have preferred I didn't interrupt the
jolly time you were having with Aunt Bella?” His expression hardened as his voice turned cold and
cruel. “Would you like to hear about how she generally follows up a few rounds of the cruciatus
curse? If you had your hopes up for an Avada you'd have been disappointed. If she got bored with
you before she killed you then it probably would've been Greyback's turn. If there was anything
left of you after that, it would’ve been for the snake. While I watched. Is that what you wanted? Is
that who you want me to be? You want me to call you a filthy little mudblood ? Or perhaps I
should’ve let you run merrily off after the hinkypunk? Is that what you want?!”

Unaccountably, tears sprang into Hermione’s eyes. She turned her face away and didn’t answer. It
was the very thing she’d been driving at when she’d picked this fight, but the words hurt .

He’d confused her with smoke and mirrors, bad excuses and strawman arguments. But… they
slipped under her skin, like all his words so effortlessly seemed to do.

She pushed herself up to stand, blinking back tears and started walking again without checking to
see if he was following.

He was.

It was a silent trek. They crested the hill and found nothing beyond it except another expanse of
rolling moor with sharp peaks and ridges maybe ten miles off.

Hermione felt like she’d been wrung out- physically, mentally, emotionally. Still, as the afternoon
wore away she refused to be the one to call a halt to their grim march. When Draco finally
suggested they take shelter under some trees at the base of the hill her hands were trembling from
low blood sugar and her legs felt like jelly.
She wouldn’t talk to him, couldn’t even look at him. Everything seemed raw and fragile. One
word, one glance from him felt like it might break her just now.

Why did everything have to be so complicated?

Gryffindor good, Death Eaters bad; she liked that dichotomy. It was easy and familiar. She didn’t
want to parse the subtleties of Draco’s experience, couldn’t summon the will to explore ideas of
willful ignorance, culpability, or the Rawlsian veil. She didn’t want to think anymore about what
she would have done if her situation had been different . She didn’t want to relitigate every old
dispute.

Not when getting from one day to the next was already hard enough.

They built up a sizable fire but the stand of trees they were in was thin and did little to keep out the
wind as the night descended with a frigid edge. Tea and lentil stew warmed them for a bit but
without even the distraction of conversation, it was all a pretty miserable affair.

Hermione reached into her bag for the blankets. It was only maybe eight o’clock but, since
screaming and crying weren’t on the menu, there was nothing she wanted more than to just sleep.
She was in the beaded bag up to her elbow when her fingers found the soft flannel. She paused.

Should she give Draco a blanket?

She swallowed hard. It felt like an oddly profound question. A philosophical question. A deeply
personal question.

Was this forgiveness that she held in her hand?

No. It was... it was… something else. Her head hurt.

She pulled the blankets out and before she could second guess herself, she held one out to him.

She was forced to glance up after a minute when he didn’t take it.

He was staring back at her, not moving to take the proffered flannel, pale features stark from the
shadows and flames. Another imitation of a fallen angel.

“It’s cold,” he gave her a searching look, “We should share.”

Asking for more, but giving it too.

It was somehow both the best and worst thing he could have done. She maintained her composure
with a fierce determination as they wordlessly settled beneath the layered blankets, careful to put as
much space between themselves as possible.

It must be the end of the fucking world.

God, she needed sleep.

The morning dawned cold and gray with a drizzling sort of rain.

Hermione resolved to set aside whatever yesterday had been. There would be a time to hold Draco
to account for anything and everything, to have a proper reckoning and tally their accounts-- later.
On a someday after the more immediate crises had passed.
Instead, when he asked if she’d ever heard the lai of Guingamor as they trudged up another hill she
shook her head and asked him to tell it to her.

In turn, she recited Tennyson’s The Lady of Shalott .

They delicately debated the symbolism and competing interpretations of Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight with carefully impersonal, academic language. The precision with which they avoided all
allusions to the personal in discussing the theme of honour versus duty was a testament to their
dedication to neutrality.

There was none of the bickering and bantering from days previous. Neither tried to provoke the
other. It was stilted and cautious in the way she thought their conversations probably should have
been all long.

Hermione kind of hated it.

They kept near to the trees as the rain waxed and waned through the day, forcing them to stop and
find shelter as best they could when it poured in earnest. A bit of rain in the morning was alright,
but going to sleep in soaking wet clothes was a poor option.

Hermione’s thoughts drifted to Harry and Ron. She wondered if they were finally having to learn
proper warming and drying spells in her absence. What would they do without the tent? Were they
out wandering some other forest?

When they’d stop, Draco would lean back against a tree with his hands in the pockets of Ron’s
baggy jeans, his wet hair sticking to his face. He too seemed reflective, eyes wandering the bleak
landscape with a strangely wistful look on his face.

A few times she caught him picking up wand-sized sticks and giving them an experimental flick.
She couldn’t help but smile a little to herself at that; it certainly wouldn’t do any good, but she
could understand the impulse.

It was impossible to tell what time it was as the day’s faint light leached slowly away, but they
hadn’t gotten far by the time finding their footing became difficult.

They didn’t say much as they settled in before a small smoky fire for the night, sitting with their
backs against a tree and the blankets spread over their legs. Nor when they eventually slid down to
lay on the ground, side by side, to sleep.

I’m losing time, Hermione thought as she closed her eyes, Losing touch.

“We shouldn’t even exist.”

“Statistically speaking?”

“Yeah.”

“I know.”

The rain eased overnight and they looked again to the ridges that they’d spotted two days ago,
more ready to tackle the long stretch of open ground under a blue sky. It would also be a change in
tactics, which seemed prudent given how fruitless their current efforts were proving.

It wasn’t just that they weren’t finding their way out of wherever this was, but there was nothing to
supplement meals with and they hadn’t had a proper wash in days.

Hermione was getting increasingly desperate for a shower. She wasn’t even sure whether finding a
wand or finding a hot shower was her top priority anymore.

They had both taken to wearing jeans during the day and their more comfortable bottoms at night,
but a singular change of clothes was in no way equal to the daily smoke and dirt and sweat. The
occasional underpowered wandless cleaning charm could only do so much.

It was getting demoralizing.

The only consolation was in seeing Draco, usually so immaculately dressed and coiffured, getting
downright tatty. Stubble was slowly, patchily, overtaking his jaw, though she hadn’t brought that
up yet. Making him aware of a problem for which there was no solution would only be an
invitation to open-ended whinging. And besides, if she was honest, she wasn’t confident she could
convincingly mock it. It looked… good.

But the hair- the hair was fair game. She’d smile to herself at his profound distress over pushing
lank strands of hair off his forehead in what might be his first honest-to-goodness experience with
greasiness. Between his silky, almost white hair and her dark curls, she definitely prevailed in the
‘needs less washing’ category and it was paying off in spades at present.

When she ribbed him about looking like he'd revived his youthful love affair with hair gel he
whined and wheedled until she gave in and cast a Scourgify for him.

Afterward they set off, tins of juniper berry tea in hand, Draco practically preening.

Unfortunately, the moor was much more rugged than it had appeared from the hilltop. It was all
grass, which was a nice change from rocks and brambles, but it was arduous and it seemed like
they were spending more time going up and down than moving forward. It was also impossible to
tell how far they had come or how far they had to go because the hills they’d left and the peaks
that lay ahead were out of view.

It was the warmest it had been in days and the sight of the sun should have been cheering, but they
had lost all sense of direction and had no idea if they were following even a moderately straight
path. It was just one more thing to add to the growing list of problems Hermione didn’t have a
solution to.

For the first time in her life she desperately wished she had a broom.

They continued trading stories and bits of poetry as the day wore on. It was a welcome distraction
for Hermione who, in the midst of an increasingly metaphorical seeming wasteland, was earnestly
beginning to wonder what was left of her when all her choices were gone. After her books and
friends and magic had been stripped away. She'd never felt so powerless, never less like herself.

An unmoored soul.

She tried to shake it off, but existential dread is nothing if not persistent.

“Did you ever hear the quote, ‘Don’t let your happiness depend on something you may lose’?” she
asked impulsively.

“I’m not sure,” he frowned.

“C.S. Lewis. I was just thinking about it.”

“I think my happiness has been about 97% material things for the last few years. Not much else to
work with. Well, aside from being grateful not to have been disemboweled for sport or fed to a
great bloody snake.”

The joke fell a bit flat.

Hermione hummed, “I think the stories we keep, our memories, what we know- that’s got to be
something, doesn’t it? Maybe it’s not happiness but more like… self. It’s what’s left of us now,
isn’t it?”

“I don’t think anyone is generous enough to consider the sum of me, in a cumulative sense, to be
my knowledge .”

“What about your experiences?”

“I would hope not,” he said dryly.

They were edging back into dangerous territory.

“What about… potential?” she offered, “What we’re capable of, given what we have and who we
are?”

He looked at her from the side of his eye, “I could live with that.”

“Not sure it’s my best moment for that interpretation, but it might be apt,” she gave a rueful smile.
It wasn’t her preferred conclusion.

Their conversation veered back into safer territory after that.

When they finally came across a hill that rose a bit higher than the others they were able to catch
sight of the peaks they were meant to be arriving at.They were not remotely close.

In all likelihood they’d been walking almost perfectly perpendicular to the course they ought to
have been on since noon.

“Well, should we try to head back that way?” Hermione indicated the direction of the hills and
trees they’d come from, “We can’t be far.”
They were far enough.

When not discussing all manner of strange, esoteric nonsense with Draco, she was muttering away
to Ron about his shitty Deluminator, because all strategy was apparently pointless. They were just
wandering in obscurity, possibly in circles.

They had kept up a relentless pace but she honestly had no idea if it could be counted as a
successful day. For all she knew, if they’d walked for twenty minutes in the opposite direction that
morning they might have stumbled on a shopping mall.

Hermione liked goals, data, and measures of success. There was none of that to be had.

Instead, they were preparing to once again build a fire and shelter as best they could in a small
grove, full of trees that scarcely even had leaves yet. Possibly worse off than they’d been when
they started out.

It had been a week they’d been out wandering now.

The lapse of time seemed all the more dramatic because Spring was coming on. There were buds
on the trees and even early violets clustered around. Like the unexpected sunshine, it should have
been cheering, but it only reminded Hermione how long she had been living out of her little beaded
bag.

Since August.

It was April.

This was the first clear night they’d spent in the open. As she laid down to sleep she marvelled at
the stars, bright and thick overhead, like a flurry of snow. Their light glazed trees and hilltops like
an ancient rite of celestial baptism. It was breathtakingly beautiful and in a forgetful moment her
soul felt like it was reaching toward that ecstasy of transcending the world to join some resplendent
harmony with the universe. But then her relentless intellect whispered about the science of light
pollution and assured her the blanket of stars signified her isolation, not her completion.

This was nowhere. They were nowhere.

Her parents, her friends… she’d let them all down. So many people were depending on her and she
was failing. She couldn’t even help herself. She bit her lip as she felt tears pricking her eyes.

She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t cry .

It was no good.

She squeezed her eyes shut and trembled all over as the tears came, desperately trying to keep
silent. The idea of Draco knowing her weakness, mocking it, was somehow worse than anything. If
she could do nothing else, she could at least keep her pride. She tried to steady her breathing but
her anxiety was relentless.

She was helpless. Utterly helpless. Useless .

A little whimper escaped her as the tears streamed over her temples. In that moment she understood
her meaninglessness with a profound and devastating clarity.

There was a slight movement under the blanket and then she felt the brush of Draco’s hand over
her palm. Long, warm fingers interlaced with her own and gave a little squeeze.

Something inside her broke.

Fucking Malfoy . She cried harder.

He didn’t say anything and didn’t let go.

When she fell asleep sometime later her eyes were dry and burning, and her hand was still
clutching his under the covers.
 Chapter 5
Chapter by smokybaltic

Hermione’s breakdown, while humiliating, had been cathartic. Which was fortunate because she
had a whole new bag of issues to deal with now.

Or not.

Yes, Draco had held her hand. Been sympathetic, perhaps. Almost like… a friend. But that didn’t
need to mean anything. This was all lost time, she decided. Anything they did here would be
considered to have been done under duress, surely.

Her friends didn’t need to know.

No one ever needed to know.

But she knew.

As they set out for the day she found herself glancing sideways at him as they strode out through
mossy groves. Once more she found questions were burgeoning, tickling her tongue, begging to
burst free. She had wanted information from him before, now she wanted information about him.

On reflection, he had been strangely placid over the last several days. He still complained,
certainly he still complained, but it was about the mundanities, not the greater evils. He still
seemed to find some delight in riling her up, but it didn’t seem malicious.

When he had let the hinkypunk incident rest, burying it under hours of dispassionate courtesy, she
had been enraged. When he said nothing of the previous night’s breakdown, burying it beneath
speculation about whether alchemy was more philosophy or science, she found she was grateful.

And curious.

There was a certain liberty that came with being in the middle of nowhere, with speaking so often
in the dark. She found herself being more speculative, more frank, more inclined to follow her
whims.

Draco didn’t know her, not really. Whatever he thought of her was presumably horrid, so she
couldn’t be bothered to worry about his opinion. With her friends and family she was the swot, the
bookworm, the ‘responsible one’. That’s what they expected her to be. Needed her to be. Without
them around, she could be… anything. She wondered if it were the same for Draco.

Was this version of him what he always was to his- she hesitated- his non-enemies , or was this
something else altogether?

The pieces of information she had didn’t fit anymore. He couldn’t possibly form a cohesive whole
from the scraps she’d gathered. If they found their way out of this debacle today she knew she’d be
haunted by the gaps.

The thought of which led her eventually to ask , of all things, "How do you know about Narnia?"

He raised a pale eyebrow.

"You mentioned Narnia the other day. Why do you know what that is?"
"You really need to trade up on Potter and Weasel. Basic literacy should not come as such a
surprise."

“Says the best mate of Crabbe and Goyle.”

Draco shrugged carelessly, hands in pockets.

“So?” she persisted, “Why have you read C.S. Lewis? A muggle author. You’ve mentioned others,
too.”

“I read everything. The origin of literature isn’t something purebloods bother about much.”

Up was down. Left was right. Draco Malfoy read muggle books.

“I’ve never seen a pureblood reading a muggle book,” she said skeptically.

“That’s because the only purebloods you spend time with are the Weasleys. I’m guessing you
haven’t seen them reading much of anything.”

“Hey!” she protested.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve shared a dorm with any of- oh, you’re just trying to distract me,” she gave
him a shove, setting him off balance for a step or two, “You’re seriously saying Lucius and
Narcissa Malfoy were fine with their son reading muggle books?”

Draco took a moment to weigh his answer. “Malfoys, as you may have noticed, have high
standards. We are the most intelligent, the richest, the best looking, the most cultured, the most
powerful,” he said it like he was laying out plain facts, without a hint of diffidence. “My mother’s
family felt blood alone was the important thing, but then, they would, wouldn’t they? The Most
Ancient and Noble House of Black. The Malfoys, however, insist on superiority in all things. My
father ensured my education was not neglected.”

“Can it really be called superiority when you place second to a mudblood in almost every subject?”
she took no small measure of satisfaction in the rejoinder, even if she couldn’t deliver it to Lucius
herself. Her grades had only earned her an eye roll in Gryffindor tower for years now, it was nice to
have a chance to flex.

“My father would certainly agree with you there,” he gave a pained sort of smile. “Never a good
day when I had to present him with the class rankings.” He was quiet for a moment, before he said,
somewhat bitterly, “Must’ve been nice for you.”

“It was,” she said promptly, “I earned it.”

Draco scoffed, “Okay.”

“I did! In spite of Snape’s best efforts.”

“Yeah, not like any of the other professors or, you know, the Headmaster , had an agenda.”

“E xcuse me? ”

“Oh, give it up. We both know when marks or house points came down to ‘muggleborn prodigy’
or ‘Chosen One’ versus ‘affluent Death Eater spawn’ that Dumbledore and McGongall and the rest
of them weren’t exactly impartial.”
Hermione recoiled, “I have never been given special treatment. Neither has Harry!”

“Really?”

Hermione’s mind flashed involuntarily to being given a Time Turner in third year, to winning the
House Cup because of a last minute influx of points, to a hundred different knowing winks from
Dumbledore.

Maybe they had been treated differently , but that was only because they were different.

“Of course not,” she sniffed, angrily tucking curls behind her ears, “There were times when
circumstances were...rectified, but it was always in correction of an oversight, or because the
situation was dire.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s true!”

“I’m not saying you aren’t clever-” he might as well have slapped her “-but it wasn’t a fair fight.”

“Will N.E.W.T.s be a fair enough fight for you?” she snapped back in challenge.

He barked a laugh, “Aren’t you the optimist- okay, yes - if somehow we both get to write our
N.E.W.T.s, then you’re on. Winner takes all.” He raised an eyebrow and stuck out his hand. It was
dry and a bit rough, dwarfing hers as she took it in a firm shake.

“This is going to be so embarrassing for you,” she said smugly.

He only looked amused, “I hope you’ll be braced for impact, because it’s going to be a long fall off
that high horse.”

In the course of their conversation they’d walked down into a fecund looking valley, damp and
softly green with smatterings of small flowers throughout. Hermione was beginning to be in hopes
of finding a stream and her eyes were roving hungrily over the ground for a hint of it when a
rumbling drew her up short. She motioned for Draco to stop as well.

“Deer,” she whispered, “A herd of deer.”

The thundering got louder and as the great animals emerged from the trees, the beating of their
hooves reverberating through the soil. There were at least two dozen of them, enormous, cantering
down through the low of the valley before disappearing back into the forest. Just passing through.
Their tawny coats were patchy with thick tufts of gray-ish brown fur that stuck out in odd
directions, ready to fall away with the last of the winter chill.

Hermione and Draco stood silently, watching, until Hermione was suddenly gripped by a horrible
realization. Red deer. She looked around wildly to the branches of the trees overhead until she saw
it. She knew she had. A reddish squirrel with tufted ears.

“Bloody-fucking-son-of-a-cocksucking-bitch-damn-hell- motherfucker !” she cursed loudly and

fluently, thoroughly dispelling the idyllic atmosphere.

“Ummmm?” He looked at her in alarm.

“We’re in Scotland,” she buried her hands in her curls in frustration, tugging at the roots,
“Probably northern Scotland. We could not be further from where we need to be. Fuck.”
“You know this because…?”

“The deer, the squirrels, the bloody hinkypunk” she gestured emphatically, “I should have realized,
with the terrain and everything, but I never thought we could’ve got so far. Scotland !”

“We can’t go to Hogwarts,” Draco said immediately.

“We can’t?”

“Absolutely not. Security will be tighter there than anywhere and the Carrows hate blood traitors
worse than muggles.”

“Is there anything else? Anyone? A town? Something you know of?” Hermione’s mind was
already combing through everything she knew of wizarding Scotland. This wasn’t good news, but
at least she finally had something that felt like solid information. She had heard of a small magical
shopping district in Edinburgh, but, not knowing anything about how to access it, that knowledge
was essentially useless. Hogsmeade had mostly been boarded up even before she’d gone on the
run. McGonagall’s home was probably under a Fidelius Charm.

Draco just shook his head.

She peppered him with questions as they carried on walking, sussing out all the potential avenues
for getting a wand or infiltrating Hogwarts, even as internally she was considering bus routes and
how far she could get on the little stash of pounds sterling she had in her bag.

Until now she’d been operating under the assumption they couldn’t be much more than a county
away from Wiltshire- Wales at worst. In which case, she could’ve easily headed for the Burrow or
London and directed Draco off through muggle channels to wherever he decided to go. France
seemed sensible to her, but he remained contrarian whenever the subject arose, and honestly, it
hadn’t much mattered to her. She’d give him what advice she could, but they’d be going their
separate ways. It wasn’t her concern.

Now, however, it seemed their paths might lie along the same road for longer than she’d
anticipated.

Bloody Scotland .

It defied reason. There would definitely be books on apparition that would be investigated on that
far off someday when recreational research was once again a viable option.

At least one thing was now clear: going South would be their objective.

There was a simmering, impotent outrage at finding they were in such a ridiculous location, but the
certainty of it was soothing nonetheless. This was data. Solid information that she could reference
against her stores of knowledge in the hopes of generating solutions.

They made camp for the night not long after when they finally found a broad, clear stream.
Hermione was desperate enough to try to wash her hair in spite of the late hour, braiding it into two
thick plaits afterward that hung heavy over her shoulders. She was chilled but blessedly refreshed.

The site also yielded enough dry wood for a large fire and plush grass that made for relatively
comfortable bedding. As they sat by the fire warming tins of stew and tea, perched on a log with
the hoods of their sweaters up and blankets spread over their laps, she could almost have imagined
they were camping on purpose.
When they settled down to sleep, Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut on the sight of a starry sky
dappled with clouds through the branches overhead. A Scottish sky. She thought it looked quite
beautiful.

The next day they set off South. At least, Hermione hoped it was South. She’d never been good at
gauging direction based on the stars or the sun, and Draco’s opinion seemed more a matter of
confidence than real proficiency.

In either event, they couldn’t do much worse than they had been.

By midmorning they were out of the woods again and back to grassy hills. She wasn’t sure at what
point a hill could be classed as a mountain, but she guessed the Scots must, out of necessity, have
some extensive terminology to clarify the point.

Truthfully, Hermione had stopped thinking of this as one long journey and thought more now of
making it to the next resting place, the next opportune spot to freshen up, or gain a better view, or
camp. She wasn’t even considering the possibility that they would find anything remotely helpful
today.

So it was that with grim determination she faced the expanse of wild and unspoilt majesty that was
the hills/mountains of the Scottish highlands, spread out before her now with the trappings of all
their romantic history intact.

By God , she’d had enough of sweeping vistas and rugged natural beauty to last a lifetime.

Draco on the other hand seemed to be almost relishing the view, the flora, the fresh air. When they
weren’t talking it was as if his mind were drifting a million miles away, a strangely peaceful look
in his eyes and a softness to his angular face. There were even brief bouts of whistling.

It was starting to piss her off.

A lazy, careless expression would’ve seemed de rigueur for the Malfoy heir, but this was more like
a contemplative serenity. He was living Walden while she was finding a new depth of
understanding for Call of the Wild.

As he blithely took a steep bit of the hill in a couple long strides and reached back to offer her a
hand up, she had to say something.

“You’re so… pensive.”

“Well” he said slowly, “I wouldn’t mind running some quidditch drills or reading a good book but
unfortunately my options are rather limited at the moment, So, ‘thinking’ it is.”

She released his hand and dusted off the knee of her jeans that had grazed the dirt. “Must you
always snark?”

“Yes. I’m like a snark shark, if I stop, I’ll die,” he deadpanned.

“You might want to give that a go then, because I promise you it’ll be less painful than what I’m
going to do to you if you keep it up.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’ve got anger issues?”

“I don’t have anger issues. I have Malfoy issues.”
“I inspire passion, what can I say?”

“You inspire homicide .”

Draco smiled broadly down at her, “Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a
vixen when she went to school. And though she be but little, she is fierce.”

“That! That right there!” she jabbed a finger at him, “Quoting Shakespeare and being all ambient
with nature and all that- what is that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do,” she studied him earnestly, like he might give it away with a look or a gesture,
“You’re… philosophic. Relaxed. It’s weird.”

“I really don’t know what you mean.”

“Just get on with it, would you? You know I’ll only keep on it if you don’t.”

“Honestly?” he looked rueful, taking his time to answer. “I’ve got nothing left to lose. This is the
worst case scenario. I’m a dead man. Once you've stepped off the ledge you might as well enjoy
the feel of the wind on your face.”

She stared at him until he awkwardly lifted a shoulder and looked away.

“Is that what you think you’ve done?” she asked uncertainly.

“I’m not stupid. Once I’m back to civilization there’s nowhere that will be safe. If your lot doesn’t
get me, mine will. I jumped, and I know the impact's coming, but this-" he waved a vague hand "-
this is the fall."

Hermione bit her lip. She lifted her bag over her head so it hung off her opposite shoulder. She
unplaited her hair and wrangled it back into a bun.

She tried, in short, to fidget away her discomfort.

It didn’t work.

Her mind was already off and running, chasing down probabilities and churning up more
questions. “Your parents-?” she tried.

“Not sure I have those anymore. You heard my father when he wanted me to identify you and the
others: capturing Potter was meant to fix everything. Instead, he’ ll know we had you and let you
escape. If my parents are still alive it’s a safe bet I’ve been disowned.”

She certainly couldn’t say she was sorry, even if that feeling of discomfort bore down a little
harder. Not to him. Not about this.

Instead, she took herself by surprise when she quietly admitted, “I don’t have my parents anymore
either.”

“What?” Draco grabbed her arm to stop her walking, his gray eyes wide with alarm, “Are they-?”

“No, no,” she assured with a tight smile, “They’re alive. But I needed to keep them safe so I…
obliviated them. They don’t know they have a daughter anymore.”
“Shit.”

They started walking again and Hermione found that now she’d broached the subject, she couldn’t
let it rest. “I told my friends that it was reversible, but I don’t think it is. I had to take too much.
There were just so many memories, and they were so deeply rooted. It wasn’t a proper use of a
memory charm, really.”

He seemed to think it over for a minute before asking “Did you have to introduce false memories as
well?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit.”

“I know.”

She did know. It was a bad combination. The false memories would be getting better incorporated
by the day, they would be forming the foundation for new memories. Ripping them away and
trying to reintroduce old memories would be extremely risky. Probably too risky.

But that was a problem she refused to broach until there was something she could do about it.

“Anyway,” she continued, “They’re safe.”

They were quiet for a few minutes before Draco said wryly “This is going really well isn’t it? Just,
all around?”

Hermione laughed so hard she had to stop and bend over to put her hands on her knees. “Fuck,” she
shook her head, “Obviously, yes. For everybody.”

Their conversation moved back to less fraught territory after that, but a n uneasy silence settled
between them as the light began to fade.

Hermione’s feet and calves were aching thanks to the endless hills they’d been walking, but she
was pushing the pace now. It had been nothing but grassy hills for hours and there was nothing but
grassy hills in sight.

There was no need to discuss the glaringly obvious: there was no prospect of shelter or even
kindling for a fire.

Thankfully it didn’t look like rain but it was windy enough to significantly worsen the night chill.

She was reasonably certain their magic would prevent them from dying of exposure if it came to it,
but that didn’t mean a night out in the cold would be anything like pleasant.

Finally their progress was arrested by the intensifying darkness. With clouds obscuring the moon
and stars it would soon be pitch black.

They settled into a shallow valley and Hermione began fishing supplies out of her bag, more by
feel than sight. Blankets, every article of clothing they had, a sleeve of crackers, and a tin of what,
unfortunately, turned out to be peas.

Perhaps it was the nervous anticipation of the frigid night that lay ahead, or perhaps it was the
illusion of existing in a vacuum that the complete darkness lent, but they laughed to the point of
hysteria over everything and nothing: the struggling into ridiculous layers, their ill-fated attempts to
ferry peas from tin to mouth, absurd suggestions, and terrible puns.

“You know what would help?” Draco prodded.

“What’s that?”

“Wine.”

Hermione snorted, “Alcohol is a vasodilator. You feel warm but it actually makes you more
susceptible to the cold.”

“Come on, Granger- let’s live dangerously.”

She burst out laughing, “Because we’re not getting enough of that already?”

“Exactly! It would rate like a two on our danger scale, relatively speaking.”

“God, you’d make a great lawyer.”

“A what ?”
“A muggle who argues for money.”
“That’s a job?” he marvelled, “Merlin, I’ve got these muggles all wrong. That’s fantastic.”

She facepalmed, because of course. “I mean, they’re considered pretty slimy, most people think
they’re just out for money.”

“Think of the damage that would do to my reputation-” Draco was cracking up, “-to the prestige of
the Malfoy name.”

Hermione lost it, barely managing to choke out “I would lose all respect for you.”

“How would I ever cope?!”

They dissolved into helpless laughter, until Hermione, finally calming, lamented, “Fuck me, it’s
getting cold.”
“Where are you?”
“Here.”
A moment later she felt the tentative brush of his hand on her ankle and, since she was sitting cross
legged, that was immediately followed by the brush of his hand between her thighs.

“Whoa!” she grabbed his wrist, “You found me! That’s close enough.”

“Granger,” his voice was very near, “I’d be willing to share my blanket.”

“Perfect lawyer,” she muttered. “Is that your way of asking to share my blanket?”

“It’s bloody freezing.”

“ Fine. ” She could press for him to make a proper request but, really, what was the point? He was
beyond help.

“Granger? Could you let go of my arm?”

She dropped it like she’d been scalded and, in the absence of visual scrutiny, gave the full-body
cringe that her mortification demanded.
“Okay, I’ll just-” after awkwardly knocking heads, elbows, and knees they eventually managed to
arrange themselves side by side with the blankets layered and equitably spread.

Hermione stuffed her hair down the back of her jumper and pulled up the hood before tucking her
hands into her sleeves and laying on her side with her back to Draco.

“Could be worse,” he said after a minute, “We could be in one of Binns’ Goblin Wars lectures.”

She chuckled, “Detention in the Forbidden Forest.”

“Bottom of the Black Lake in February.”

“Honestly, that wasn't as bad as a quidditch match in January.”

“Oi!” he protested, “You should be so lucky.”

“Pfft there is no greater proof of my selfless love for my friends than the fact I subject myself to
those. And please bear in mind, I have risked literal death for Harry.”

“Oh come now Granger, there’s no one else for miles. Just us. You can admit you like it.”

“Hmmm,” she feigned serious contemplation, “Well, I do seem to recall a match where Fred really
nailed the smarmy little Slytherin seeker with a bludger. Gryffinor must have won by, gosh, 200
points?”

“Hey! That hit dislocated my shoulder, by the way. Merlin, you’re bloodthirsty! And it was an 100
point win.”

Hermione chuckled, “Oh, my mistake. Big difference, that.”

“It is. ”

They lapsed into silence, the blankets stretched taut between them as they both tried to wrap
themselves tighter.

Hermione was pretty sure her eyes were closed, but it was difficult to tell. There was nothing she
wanted more now than to just fall asleep and wake up to a warm, sunny morning.

Draco was drawing shuddering little breaths, trembling just the same as she was, shifting to try to
find a better position. She was just about to tell him to stop fidgeting when he heaved a dramatic
sigh.

"Fuck it," he muttered before he rolled over and in one fluid motion wedged one arm under her
head and wrapped his other arm around her middle, pulling her flush to him. His broader frame
fairly enveloped her.

"Malfoy!" she squeaked, instinctively trying to squirm away.

"It's too bloody cold," his breath was warm against her ear and she shivered involuntarily. He
tightened his hold, curling around her so his hips were pressed right against her arse and their legs
were tangled.

"This is-"

"Warmer."

"Yeah, but-"
"The sooner you stop talking, the sooner we can be unconscious."

She really couldn't argue with his logic. Desperate times, and all that. Still, it took a few minutes
before the tension left her body and she finally gave up on holding her arm awkwardly above her
head and let it rest alongside his, draped over her stomach.

It was disturbingly comforting.

There had been numerous times over the years when she would mentally flash forward to having to
one day describe her present situation to a therapist. Obliviating her parents, polyjuicing herself
into a half-cat, polyjuicing herself into her male best friend, Harry's many near brushes with death,
Ron’s abandonment... It was getting to be a long list, she thought vaguely as she drifted off to
sleep, but cuddling with her childhood bully was definitely going to merit a session or two.
 Chapter 6
Chapter by smokybaltic

Hermione woke up still very much entangled with Draco. She had turned toward him slightly in the
course of the night so his forehead was now resting against her cheek, and she couldn’t even begin
to account for where everyone’s hands were. She also didn’t really care to account for the fact that
it was wonderful .

Even in sleep his hold was firm, pulling her into his reassuring warmth where she fit perfectly,
snuggled against his chest, her hips cradled by his. He felt safe and strong and all manner of things
he had no business being.

His nose nudged her jaw as he stirred and she held as still as she possibly could, hardly daring to
breathe. She wanted desperately to delay properly waking up, an occasion which would necessitate
leaving her delicious little cocoon and facing not only the day but the cocoon himself.

She grit her teeth as Draco gave a little groan and nuzzled against her neck.

Fuck.

Fuck, if this wasn’t downright blissful.

Therapy. This will require scads and scads of therapy, she thought, even as she sank a little further
into his arms.

Eventually of course they did need to get up. As soon as Draco groggily began to rouse, Hermione
was off like a shot, making herself busy with fixing her hair, conjuring water to drink, and tidying
up.

She was touch starved, was all. And it had been very cold. And this was a frightening situation.
And they just happened to be complimentary heights. And she’d been mostly unconscious. And it
was cold. And she was repeating herself but it’s not like she needed to make excuses .

Lost time. Duress. Extraordinary circumstances.

No need to panic.

By midmorning they had caught sight of a forest sprawling around the base and up the side of what
appeared to be a long, high ridge. Which was fortunate because the weather did not seem to be on
their side. The temperature had risen dramatically, but with the warmth came gusting winds that
rolled over the moors carrying heavy thunderhead clouds on their back. The low rumble of thunder
could already be heard as the sky began to darken.

They hurried on, running on the downhills, hustling to make it to cover in time.

For all the tension of worrying they wouldn’t make it in time to avoid being caught in the
downpour, Hermione couldn’t deny the exhilaration she felt. The swell of the storm wasn’t unlike
the surge she felt when preparing to cast a spell. Energy was gathering, preparing to be unleashed.

There was a flash of lightning and fat drops of rain began to fall. They were only a hundred meters
off from the treeline now and Hermione let loose a peal of laughter, giddy with the thrill of feeling
the thunder right in her bones as they sprinted the final stretch.

They were both panting when they drew up under the cover of the trees.

“It’s going to be a wild one,” Draco’s eyes were flashing.

A curtain of nearly torrential rain could be seen sweeping down toward them, and though it could
hardly be noon, it was dark as twilight.

“Build a fire?” Hermione asked, “We can wait it out.”

They took their time gathering up wood, finding a spot where there was a large rock to sit against
which would block the wind, and which provided a view of the storm raging over the moor.

“Tell me a story, Granger,” Draco entreated as he set aside the now empty tin of lentil stew,
leaning back against the rock beside her with his hands behind his head, eyes half lidded.

“Naptime, is it? I’m not your mum.”

“C’mon,” he stretched out a foot to prod at her leg.

“How about the Tales of Beedle the Bard ? Would that suit ickle baby Malfoy’s tastes?” she
needled good naturedly as she crawled forward to pull a tin out of the fire- pine needle tea. Again.

He ignored her teasing. “Just fine. Go on, then.”

Hermione settled back against the rock a few feet from him and took a cautious sip of tea. She cast
a sidelong look at Draco before she began to recite The Tale of The Three Brothers . She knew it by
heart by now.

The truth was that it had been preying on her mind again the last couple days. The Hallows and the
horcruxes. She had no new information, she couldn’t pursue any leads, or follow up any theories,
so she’d set it aside for a while. But, there was Draco.

Draco and his unknown stores of knowledge.

More than once she had been tempted to discuss it with him. Not only was he intelligent, with a
broader knowledge of the wizarding world than she had, but he might have insight into Voldemort
and his plans. Even just the opportunity to talk through the problem with someone new would be
helpful.

Ron hadn’t had much to contribute on either topic and Harry’s ideas were mostly borne of instinct
or emotion. She longed to discuss it with someone who thought more like she did, that might help
her puzzle it out.

Of course, she couldn’t tell him. She knew that. Even bringing up The Tale of The Three Brothers
was taking a probably unnecessary risk, but as she watched him for any peculiar reaction to it, she
found nothing to signify.

When she’d finished the story his eyes were closed, although she could tell he wasn’t sleeping.

“You know, when we get out of here, there’s something I’m working on,” she ventured, “Even if I
can’t find Harry and Ron, there’s this thing I need to keep working on.”
His brow furrowed a little but that was the only sign he’d heard.

“You could help me. If you wanted.”

She peeked out of the side of her eye and found he was looking at her, one eye just cracked open.

“Think about it,” she urged.

Even as she made the offer she wasn’t sure whether she would ever tell him anything, but she
wanted to know his answer. He said he didn’t have a side- would he take one, if it was offered?

He made it sound like he hadn’t had many choices in his life, but perhaps he just didn’t know how
to make them.

Minutes later thunder cracked almost directly overhead and Hermione jumped, startled from her
reverie, sloshing tea over her jumper. The rain itself was a dull roar on the canopy overhead,
although hardly any penetrated through to the forest floor. They were right in the thick of the storm
now.

“Do you want to-?” Draco looked pointedly at the ground beside him as the world was
momentarily lit with a blinding flash of lightning.

Hermione pursed her lips because this was all getting a little familiar , wasn’t it? But she shifted
over until their shoulders were touching. After a moment Draco lifted his arm and she willfully
ignored the internal cacophony of protests from all her instincts toward prudence and pride to lean
into him, resting her head against his chest as his arm curled around her shoulders.

“Tell me a story, Malfoy,” she cajoled.

“I’m not a trained crup. I don’t perform on command.”

“Hey!” she poked him hard in the ribs.

“Fine, fine,” he chuckled, “But you’re very needy, you know.”

Then he launched into a story about quidditch.

When that was drowned out by her protests, he began another story that meandered through a
woebegone childhood before it became clear the climax of the tale would be quidditch stardom and
she had to take measures to physically silence him.

Eventually they settled on discussing the appropriate regulatory approach to potion making and
Hermione confirmed Draco’s entirely predictable libertarian bent. It was still an interesting and
nuanced conversation though, and he had her on her heels having to make excuses for some of Fred
and George’s shop’s offerings.

And if she couldn’t help flinching when there was a particularly loud roll of thunder, Draco
probably couldn’t help the way he briefly pulled her in a little closer each time.

It was several hours before the heavy rain eased and there was only a distant echo of the storm as it
moved off northward.

"Look," she nudged him, tilting her chin toward a spot just over a far ridge, "A rainbow."

"Sort of," he squinted at the spot where there was a fragment of a rainbow, "Just a smudge, really.
Not much after all the rain we've had."

"I think it's called a watergaw when it’s just a patch."

“Well, credit to whoever came up with a name like that: they’re not overselling it.”
She hummed. “Anyway, I think it’s probably our cue to get moving.” She pushed herself up to
stand, stretching out limbs that were stiff with spending so long in one position. As she reached her
hands up over her head she turned and found Draco still sitting, looking up at her. She gave his foot
a little kick, “Come on.”

He tossed a stick at their fire, which had burned low, “It’s pretty late and we’re already set up
here.”

“You want to stay?”

“We wouldn’t get far anyway and I don’t want to get stuck out in the open again. Everything’ll be
wet.”

“I guess,” she frowned, “It’s probably, what? Four o’clock? Five?”

“Time to stop for tea. But of course we don’t have proper tea, so it’ll have to be wine.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, “Pathetic attempt.”

He only smiled, as if he knew he’d be getting his way in the end.

While she didn’t give in on the wine, she did concede to staying put for the rest of the day. It really
was a nice little spot and the lazy afternoon was primed for slipping into a lazy evening. Besides,
they’d been walking for...God, ten days .

Up to this point, Hermione had noted the passing of time with an anxiety that drove her forward,
but just now it hit with a wave of almost oppressive weariness. They’d been going on and on and
on , and maybe it was time for a break.

Once you've stepped off the ledge you might as well enjoy the feel of the wind on your face, he’d
said. The words had been hovering at the edge of her consciousness ever since.

Bleak, at first blush, but they rang true. On some level they resonated. After all, wasn’t that just
what she’d been doing since she’d realized at twelve years old that she’d stick by Harry Potter no
matter what? Hadn’t she always known, deep down, some version of being tortured, lost, and alone
lay along that path? Maybe - probably- death?

She wished she had a damned book. There was too much space for thinking out here.

In lieu of reading she had to settle for bickering and goofing off and, at the end of the night,
spooning, with her enemy-cum-accomplice.

Good decision, Hermione affirmed as she blinked awake to blue skies.

She was warm, not only from being snuggly tucked in against the heat of Draco’s body, but from
the morning sun that was already shining with a vigour that Scotland hadn’t seen in months and
months. A patch of intrepid violets was blooming just an arms-length away.

Her head felt clearer. Her long-suffering legs and back felt close to what she thought she
remembered normal was. The usual pit of dread in her gut felt comparatively shallow this morning.

It was well past sunrise but Draco was clearly still asleep because they didn’t seem to have moved
an inch since last night. Maybe he’d suffocated in her curls? Except… no. She became aware of his
hand spread over her hip, and the broad thumb that had drifted beneath her jumper, where it was
tracing lazy circles against the bare skin over her hip bone.

It was just at the edge of tickling, causing a tingling sort of sensation she found was very pleasant-
a sensation that was, in fact, going straight to her… oh fuck no. She gave a little start at the
realization of what exactly was going on and he stilled instantly.

There was a painfully long standoff as they both went rigidly still, before Draco finally cleared his
throat and rolled away. “G’morning,” his voice was rough with sleep.

“Hmmm,” Hermione buried her face in her hands to clear away the sleep. And sort herself out.
Obviously she’d been pseudo-dreaming and needed some time for her rational brain to become
operative.

She shook herself out after a minute and, stretching languidly, pushed herself up to sit cross-legged.
Draco had dropped the last bit of kindling on the embers still smoldering from the night before and
she directed a lazy ‘ Incendio ’ at it. She was getting quite proficient at performing the charm
wandlessly now.

They made tea from pine needles and some leaves from a little, minty plant she wasn’t quite sure
of the name of and ate a few dried dates.

The plan they settled on was to carry on through the trees and a little ways up the peak so they
could get a bit of height to see the best southward route.

It might’ve been the weather or it might have simply been progress of the season, but the woods
were alive with the sounds of bird calls and the furtive little noises of animals skittering about their
Spring business. There was vibrancy to the forest that was probably attributable to yesterday’s rain.
It all made for a very tranquil morning walk.

Which was probably why, despite the fact she was currently wandering the wilderness in the midst
of a nearly year-long succession of relentless catastrophes and misfortunes that it still managed to
catch her off guard when their plans were unceremoniously overthrown and probably two days
worth of progress went out the window.

Where they expected to meet the beginning of the rise of the peak, they instead stumbled onto the
edge of an enormous loch. The trees had unexpectedly given way to a bit of rock, a thin band of
sand, and then the impassable water which skirted the peak. The loch wasn’t wide, probably only
fifty meters across, but Hermione couldn’t see how far it spanned east to west. In any event, there
was certainly no ready way to continue south.

Hermione cursed prolifically, snarled some choice words at Ron, and threw a few rocks at the
water for good measure.

Could not one bloody thing go to plan? Was she not allowed to have a strategy even of any kind?!

“All tantrumed out?” Draco smirked.

Hermione turned on him, flinging her arms out pathetically. “Why can’t I have nice things?” she
whined, “‘Go south’ is literally the loosest, shittiest semblance of a plan I’ve ever had and we can’t
even do that ?”

“Maybe the universe is trying to force some Zen on you?” he speculated unhelpfully. “Release
your expectations.”

“Well then the universe has got some shitty fucking timing.” She kicked viciously at the sand and
turned back to glare again at the personal affront masquerading as a loch.

“You’re telling me,” she heard him mutter darkly behind her.

Hermione rolled her neck and shook out her arms. “Alright-” she sighed “-Alright.” Accepting her
defeat with bad grace she stalked back toward Draco. “Well, shall we cast stones or read tea leaves
or something to decide which way to go? Might as well! Seems as likely to work as anything else.”

“So you’re definitely not on course for becoming horribly bitter at all .”

Her eyes narrowed menacingly, “Whatever happened to your instinct toward self-preservation?”

“Fuck if I know,” he shook his head mournfully. She wasn’t even sure if he was joking or in
earnest, and maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t tell that banked her anger.

“Okay, I’m fine. I’m over it. This will be… fine.”

“Atta girl.”

“So-?” she looked east then west.

Draco made a gentlemanly gesture for her to proceed ahead of him, to the west.

If he had any knowledge or instinct about which direction was most expedient, Hermione was
beginning to suspect he’d choose the worse option. As soon as he seemed confident she wasn’t
going to bite his head off he began pestering her about stopping.

The loch, he argued, was a blessing in disguise. A brilliant stroke of luck.

“I think this is it,” Draco said, surveying the almost cloudless sky, his jacket folded over his arm,
“I think it has to be today.”
Hermione shuddered, dancing a little with nerves, “I don’t know- I don’t know.”

“We need this, and it could be awhile before conditions are this good again. Besides, I don’t feel
like doing much more walking today.”
She bit her lip, still unsure. “It would have to be, like, now. It’s got to be at least noon already and
we should build a fire first.”
“A huge fire,” he agreed, smiling now, “We’ll keep it going all night.”

“Oh god,” Hermione whined. “Okay.”

She was dreading this but some small part of her, probably the part that had got her sorted into
Gryffindor, thrilled at the challenge. And she certainly wasn’t prepared to wuss out before Prima
Donna Malfoy.

A little over an hour later Hermione was clutching at the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the
only thing preserving her modesty and any remnants of warmth. The sand and rocks were cold but
smooth against her bare soles as she shifted from foot to foot. She puffed her cheeks out, taking a
last few deep breaths to summon up her courage as Draco tossed a final branch on the great bonfire
they had blazing away on the beach. It was sending up sparks and licking at the sky with flames
nearly ten feet high.

All their clothes, except the gray bra and knickers she had on and the boxer briefs Draco sported,
were arrayed beside the fire.
“Ready?” he called.

Adrenaline was already flooding her veins as she looked over at him and nodded, a wide smile
dimpling her cheeks, “Ready!”

His eyes were bright and she could actually see him vibrating with anticipation, his smile just as
wide as her own. “Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven! Six! Go!” he hollered, throwing off his own blanket
and dashing toward the loch.

Hermione dropped her blanket and took off sprinting, the laughter bubbling past her lips turning to
shrieks as she charged into the icy waters that were slowly lapping over the reddish rocks.

“Omigodomigodomigod!” the frigid water slowed her progress as it caught at her knees, then her
hips, then her ribs. It stole her breath away.

Draco was yelling and splashing only a few meters off, plunging in to create a dramatic wave with
a sidelong dive, immersing himself completely. Not to be outdone, Hermione filled her lungs and
hit the bypass switch on all her poor nerve endings crying out against the cold, submerging herself.
Her curls haloed around her as her feet left the lake floor. She was stretched, suspended in an
euphoric agony. Her heart was racing and her extremities were burning but she felt bold and
fearless and clean .

Her head broke the surface and she raked her hair out of her face to find Draco looking at her with
eyes wide, mouth agape, and arms held high. “Holy shit!” he crowed, before turning back toward
the shore.

In a deluge of screams and curses and gales of laughter they waded back to shore, hair plastered to
their heads and underthings clinging to goosepimpled flesh.

It was a mad scramble for blankets and shoes that were pulled on with shaking hands. Hermione
kept her blanket tight about her as she peeled away her sodden knickers and bra before tugging on
her fire-warmed tracksuit bottoms, shirt, her jumper, and then Harry’s jumper. Through the flames
she could see Draco making similarly awkward maneuvers beneath his blanket as he redressed. She
caught a glimpse of his bare torso as he did, and was struck by the long silvery gouges that bisected
his lean, pale flesh. Were those …?

The tins of tomato soup and pine needle tea they had left heating were collected and consumed
with relish. They sat in the sand, hunched under their thin blankets, chilled but exhilarated, and
cozy in a way that could only follow being profoundly cold.

High on adrenaline and the acute relief of finally being clean, it was the best they had felt in
weeks. Maybe months.

They laughed over memories of professors and colourful students, even doing impressions.
Hermione had McGonagall dead to rights and managed a very respectable Peeves, but her Hagrid
was lost on her present audience. Draco, to her delight, was uniquely terrible at everyone but was
so convinced of his own comedic brilliance that he undertook them all with zeal. He had Hermione
laughing helplessly at the farce, tears streaming down her face, which of course he took as proof
positive of his genius.

The only one he nailed, bizarrely, was Trelawney. Eyes agog, he tittered and trembled and
gesticulated wildly, crying out predictions of swarms of doxies, a pestilence that would befall the
flobberworms, and the coming of three days of dim lighting.
They dragged evergreen boughs from the nearby trees to build up a windbreak between them and
the fire, their good humour allowing them to find more humour than frustration in the way it kept
tipping over in the sand.

Plans were made for the following day. A new strategy, they agreed, was in order. Instead of
trying to maximize the distance they travelled or set themselves on a compass heading, they would
seek out the best probable vantage point. It would be a slow and gruelling climb, but surely from
the height of one of the nearby peaks they’d be able to see something that could guide them.

Draco made an impassioned argument for finally partaking in the wine but, although Hermione
found herself tempted, his persistence had turned the request into a battle of wills that she was
unprepared to lose.

When the adrenaline began to ebb and the mood had mellowed Draco caught her eye and then
glanced at her stomach. "You've got scars," he ventured.

"So do you," Hermione looked pointedly at his chest, "Are they from…?"

"Potter, yeah."

"Mine's from the Department of Mysteries. Your father and his friends."

Draco nodded at the ground before looking up at her through his fringe, "Shall we call it even?"

“Neither of us actually did anything, so… yeah. I think we’re good on that one.”

“Good.” He made a motion like he was crossing it off a list.

When it grew dark they laid back in the sand, settling comfortably under their blankets, enjoying
the heat of the fire and a magnificent view of the stars.

“There’s you,” Hermione pointed up at the Draco constellation.

“And you,” he teased, pointing a ways left of Draco, “Virgo. The Celestial Virgin.”

She threw him a curious look, “How’d you know that?”

He shrugged, not looking at her, “Had a hunch.” They were quiet for a minute before he offered,
“Me too.”

"What?"

"Same," he tilted his chin a little, indicating Virgo.

“No you aren’t.”

“Yeah, I am."

"No,” she shook her head, bemused, “You're not."

“Granger, I think I’d know.”

“ Malfoy , your birthday is in June .”

“My birthday? What’s that got-- oh . Oh.”

“Wait. Did you mean-?” she felt her cheeks flood with heat, “My birthday is in September. Virgo is
my horoscope.” She snuck a peek at him. He was staring at the sky. His eyes were very, very wide.

"So, you’re not…" his voice was strangled.

"Um, no. Not so much."

He cleared his throat, "Potter?"

"Wooooow, that's- that's really none of your business."

"Please tell me not the Weasel at least."

Hermione laughed outright.

"Krum?" he tried.

" Malfoy ."

"I think I'd remember if it were me."

She couldn't help huffing a laugh, but still smacked his arm, "Alright, alright, that's enough of
that."

They went back to silently surveying the sky, but a couple minutes later she heard him mutter "
Krum " like he'd decided. She bared her teeth with an awkward consciousness, but let it go. He
wasn't wrong anyway.

Eventually Draco got up to stoke the fire. Hermione watched him with a new sort of interest. She
felt a bit bad he’d accidentally divulged something as personal as his virginity, but it certainly gave
her something to think about.

It shouldn't be surprising really; she'd never noticed him spending time with any girl in particular,
unless you counted Pansy Parkinson, who was pug-faced and dumber than a troll. She hardly
seemed his type.

Her eyes followed him as he crouched by the fire, his brow furrowed with concentration as he laid
on new wood. He was a bit too thin and it emphasized the harsher angles of his face, but he'd
grown tall and broad shouldered, and his colouring was obviously striking.

Whatever his faults, Draco was undeniably attractive. She was sure he'd had his chances. But then,
he, like she and her friends, had been caught up with rather more pressing matters the last few
years.

When he returned, lowering himself so he could slip under the covers beside her and leaning back
to fold his hands behind his head, Hermione had to admit that he was not simply attractive. He was
sexy.

In her experience, guys her age might, at best, be fit. They might be hot. They might be attractive.
But Draco Malfoy, in the way he looked and the way he moved, with his strong and clever fingers,
and his ridiculous silvery eyes, was irrefutably, disconcertingly, sexy . Maybe she had a thing for
bad boys?

How embarrassing.

She shook herself. There was a bloody Dark Lord on the loose. She couldn’t be distracted by
lusting after one of his sodding minions. Not that she was attracted to him, she hurried to amend. It
was simply an objective observation. Academic sexiness.

It was a travesty that he could look the way he looked and be so intelligent and also be so…
Malfoy .

“Are you okay?” his voice seemed gratuitously deep and raspy.

“Fine? What? Fine,” she stammered defensively, “Nothing.”

“So it’s warm enough?”

“Yep. Yep. It’s good. Fine. I’m tired- you tired?”

“Eh. Wish the bloody midges would take a break already.”

“Right?” she gave an absurd giggle and then, mortified, turned away from him to lay on her side.

“Goodnight?” he said uncertainly.

Hermione buried her face in her hands and willed the sweet oblivion of sleep to take her. For once,
she really needed her brain to just stop.

She was still awake though, nearly an hour later, when Draco wrapped her in his arms and pressed
his face into her curls.

“Goodnight,” she heard him mumble again.

This was no good. This was no fucking good.

 Chapter 7
Chapter by smokybaltic

Was it possible to have a purely emotional hangover?

All night she’d had hazy dreams about Harry and Ron slipping away and returning, Ron pulling at
her wrist, Harry’s fingers brushing the back of her neck.

Waking up on a beach in the arms of Draco Malfoy , remembering how they had been laughing
and fooling around yesterday and how genuinely happy she had felt, she was flooded with guilt.
She had fallen asleep thinking about his sex appeal instead of, you know, horcruxes or how to
overcome the mortal danger her best friends were facing.

There was a bottomless pit in her stomach and she curled in on herself a little, cradling her pain,
feeling her throat constrict.

“Mmmm not yet,” Draco mumbled and tightened his hold, nestling into her warmth.

She whimpered.

It was too much.

Whatever all this was, she’d partaken of too much of it too quickly.

She marshalled her thoughts and her renegade emotions and after a few more minutes, when
Draco’s breathing was back to being deep and even, she disentangled herself from him and slipped
away. Drawing a centring breath she stepped toward the shore.

Fog diffused the orange light of sunrise over the loch, a retreating shroud that revealed the
reflection of the morning sky, and the quiet beauty of it chafed at her heart. She didn’t deserve
something so lovely.

If she were a different person in a different time… but she wasn’t.

She crouched at the edge of the lake and cupped her hands to draw up water to splash her face,
taking some absolution from the shock of the cold. When the ripples subsided her own face was
reflected back to her.

Her hair had grown long and the curls were loose and voluminous after yesterday’s swim. The
weight she’d lost had sharpened her cheekbones and jaw, long hours in the sun had bronzed her
olive complexion and scattered freckles over her nose. Her dark brows arched over inky, alien-
looking eyes that were too big in her gaunt face.

It was as if she’d been distilled. Made smaller, but somehow intensified.

She reminded herself more of a painting of Morgan Le Fay she’d seen once than Hermione
Granger.

I’m becoming a wild thing , she thought hazily.

Shaking herself, she went about the business of her morning ablutions, changing into jeans, stoking
the fire, and preparing pine needle tea.
Draco slept on and she cursed the tranquility of the early morning. This is probably what people
pay to go on hippy-dippy wilderness meditation excursions for , she thought resentfully. She was an
unwilling participant in an extended spiritual retreat.The past and the future had fallen away. With
no books, no classes, no obligations beyond moving and surviving, and no opportunity to save
Harry from mortal danger, her thoughts had space. The distance was shifting and broadening her
perspective.

She had never lived with such immediacy and it was thoroughly unsettling.

Her fingers twitched with want of a book.

When Draco finally roused himself she deliberately picked a fight for the sake of distraction. She
determinedly ignored the way his face was soft with sleep and the way his long fingers flexed
around his tin of tea.

He was a prick. He’d always been a prick.

She was on a mission for The Light. The right-hand woman to The Chosen One. An emissary for
The Order of The Phoenix.

Today would be the day her vaunted intellect would deliver them from this primeval limbo.

She muttered to Ron about how he was taking his sweet time and packed their things before Draco
had even finished his tea.

He grumbled as she kicked sand over the remnants of their fire but as she strode off toward the
highest peak in view he sauntered after her with a hand in his pocket, still sipping his tea. The fog
had burned off the loch and the unseasonable Scottish sunshine was persisting. When she glanced
back to Draco she saw his face was turned up toward the sun, the barest hint of a smile playing at
his lips.

Why was he being so so…

She gripped the strap of her beaded bag with white knuckles and pressed on.

By midmorning he was baiting her with what she knew were deliberately contentious theories on
transfiguration, trying to draw her into conversation.

By noon she had succumbed to temptation.

He willfully conflated her arguments in support of creature rights with the conjuration of apparently
sentient animals and she was powerless to resist engaging in a spirited debate.

The day was passing away and her thoughts refused to settle on her grandiose objectives or to
wander off the scholastic tangents they were generally wont to. No, her mind remained stubbornly
fixed on the present, focused on their fluent discourse and the way Draco couldn’t quite keep a
straight face as he made intentionally inflammatory assertions, and pushed his fringe out of his
eyes, and veered toward the loch until he had to dance away from the climbing tide.

He pushed his sleeves up to his elbows and she mentally digressed on the mystifying appeal of
corded muscles and prominent veins for a full quarter of an hour before his Dark Mark startled her
brain back into more seemly tracts.

They began running through scraps of verse and liberally paraphrased prose to pass the time.
Draco put on an offensively poor Scottish accent to quote Robert Burns,

“O were my love yon Lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring,
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!
How I wad mourn when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!”

Hermione recounted Ernest Hemingway’s short story “The Short Happy Life of Francis
Macomber” as best she could.

They debated whether love looked on ‘tempests’ or ‘storms’ when it was “never shaken” in
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 116.

She did her best with Sonnet 29. Draco clearly hated it but said nothing.

Before she knew it the day was winding down and they had reached their objective. By sticking to
the shore of the loch they had avoided the rolling terrain of the moors which likely would’ve worn
them down hours ago. It was only a short trek from there to find a sheltered spot in the col between
adjacent peaks. Fortunately, they found it littered with large, sharp boulders they could shelter
among for the night.

The branches they gathered were still mostly bare of leaves but the weather had remained mild and
the sky clear. Away from the wind, their fire and blankets would probably be sufficient for
comfort.

A mist rose to meet the descending darkness over the loch as they ate minestrone soup, boiled
stinging nettle, and dried dates. They brewed tea with early, wild meadowsweet.

Hermione pulled their blankets free of her little bag and shook them out over a patch of grass
beside a sheltering boulder, upwind from the smoke of their fire. Draco checked they had enough
wood gathered to see them through the night.

They had habits now. An unspoken routine.

Hermione ventured back to the shore of the loch so she could wash her face, change into her
tracksuit bottoms, and divest herself of her bra. She braided her hair over her shoulder as she
walked back toward the beacon of their fire. In her fleeting solitude she had half-heartedly
reprimanded herself again for allowing her focus to drift from horcruxes, Voldemort, and all the
legends and prophecies and riddles she was meant to be solving, but she found she didn’t have the
energy to see the reprimand through to sincere self-flagellation.

When she tucked herself in under their blankets Draco urged her over, “My leg is being a bit of a
bother. Do you mind the other side?”

It was comfortable and bizarrely domestic and she found she welcomed the contact of their
shoulders and hips as they lay side by side. It was an anchor. It meant someone knew she was here,
even if she was lost to her friends and forgotten by her family.

She rolled to her side after a while, anticipating with a warm satisfaction that he would follow.

She couldn’t bite back her smile as his arms slipped around her, pillowing her head on his shoulder
and settling his other hand on her hip, where his fingers began stroking gently back and forth in a
soothing rhythm.
She stared into the fire, now willfully ignoring absolutely everything she was supposed to be
thinking about. What good did it do anyway? Her friends would be horrified if they could see her
now, even more so if they could read her thoughts, but somehow, for right now, that was fine. This
was hers. All hers.

If the universe wouldn’t give her any peace, she’d steal this sliver of it from the place and the
person she was least supposed to find it in.

The play of sparks over glowing embers, the suspense of waiting for twigs burnt white to split had
almost lulled her to sleep when she felt Draco’s hand slip from her hip to her waist.His palm began
to track slowly back and forth along the hem of her jumper for a few moments before his hand
slipped beneath the layers of fabric.

She sucked in a breath at the tentative brush of his fingers over the bare skin of her stomach and
ribs, but did nothing to stop it. His fingers were flexing, the blunt ends of his nails gently scraping,
and she swore she could feel her gooseflesh rising, the hair on the back of her neck standing on
end.

It went on and on, slow and deliberate, almost as if he weren’t conscious of the way his
ministrations were affecting her, but then she felt the brush of his thumb across the underswell of
her breast. Her stomach flipped and she arched into the delicious sensation. Her backside met with
the hard proof that he was certainly no less affected than she.

He stilled for a moment but when she only pressed back more firmly he boldly palmed the heavy
flesh of her breast, circling over her pert nipple with his thumb.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her breath coming shallow and quick. She was afraid to go on but
absolutely unwilling to consider stopping. Her mind was hazy, her body alight with sensation. She
was acutely aware not only of his hand at her breast and his erection cradled by her arse, but of his
breath at her neck and his thighs resting flush with hers.

It was surreal. She didn’t know how it started or where exactly it was going, but she wanted more.
As he continued his teasing ministrations she couldn’t help rocking back against him, wanting to
feel his arousal. He began kneading more roughly, twisting at her nipples a little as she shifted until
she found a better position and rolled her hips so his cock was being stroked between her legs.

He gave an almost pained groan and then his hand retreated slowly, deliberately down her
abdomen. For a moment she was afraid she’d scared him off, but when he met the waistband of her
trousers he did not stop. Long fingers slipped beneath the band of her knickers and her breath
hitched. She tensed in anticipation as he moved with a slow, delicious pressure until his hand fully
cupped her bare sex.

Unmoving.

Her eyes flicked open.

Apparently he could be provoking even in this.

Hermione knew her knickers were soaked, she literally throbbed with wanting more, but she
waited, waited, waited-- until finally she physically couldn’t stand it any longer. She clutched at
the hand of the arm he’d threaded beneath her neck and her hips began to move, simultaneously
rocking her aching cunt into his hand and grinding her arse against the hard, pressing length of his
cock.
Evidently it was what he had been waiting for.

His palm ground against her clit as his fingers stroked along her folds. She bent up the knee of her
top leg to allow him better access. The long, clever digits she’d so begrudgingly admired now
eagerly explored the intricacies of her most intimate place, sliding through her slick warmth until a
questing fingertip slipped within her, eliciting a feminine whimper.

The way he was reaching around her made for the perfect angle and he almost instantly found the
bundle of nerves at her core, stroking over it, working it relentlessly. She held his free hand tighter
as she moved with increasing abandon.

His hips began to move as well, rocking back against her until together they found a rhythm. Even
through their layers of clothing she could feel how thick and hard he was as he thrust against her.

That feeling, just the idea of it, had her cunt bearing down harder on him.

She desperately wanted to turn her head and kiss him, but somehow that was what she thought
would be taking it too far. Instead she bit her lip and tried to swallow back the moans and cries that
were gathering in her throat, but the pressure in her hips was becoming unbearable. The knowledge
that Draco was getting off just rubbing against her made her almost feral.

His forehead pressed into her neck as he drew ragged breaths. She felt the stretch of him pressing a
second finger within her and little mewling noises poured from her lips. His fingers were rubbing,
curling just where she needed them.

She was close, so close .

Her mouth opened, prepared to stutter out that she wanted to, needed to - was about to - come, she
just needed a little more , when she felt the graze of teeth at her neck followed by the fervent press
of his lips.

Without warning the tension snapped and she cried out as her whole body clenched, everything
contracting down and in before releasing in a swell of pleasure that flooded her chest. Her toes
curled and her hips bucked wildly through the surges of her orgasm.

“ Fuck , so-so-” his voice was raw. His thrusts came harder and then stuttered, a moment later he
was groaning into her shoulder.

They were both drunk on a cocktail of endorphins and exhaustion. Panting, they leaned heavily
into each other but said nothing. Hermione’s mind stuttered over expletives, both effusive and
disbelieving.

Of all the things that had not gone to plan, this was definitely the most outrageous.

Also, easily, her favourite.

Hermione summoned up enough energy to cast a strategic scourgify over them and then
succumbed to sleep almost immediately, with Draco’s hand still resting between her legs.

When she awoke the next morning the sky was cloudy, the fire was out, and Draco’s hand was
cupping her breast.

She blinked several times, verifying she was in fact awake, and then did some very rapid mental
processing. Hoo-boy.
Draco began to stir and she tensed, concerns about overwhelming awkwardness were suddenly
eclipsed as she was seized by the idea he might be repulsed by what they’d done. Like he’d
demeaned himself by being with her in that way. Her pride cringed at the thought, but it
unexpectedly struck a blow somewhere deeper and softer as well.

She sucked in a breath, mentally preparing for whatever he might throw at her.

What she was not expecting was him mumbling ‘hey’ through a languid stretch, giving her breast
an affectionate sort of squeeze and then asking if she wanted to get an early start on the day.

Hardly believing they were just going to take this in stride she nodded in the affirmative and then
set about readying to depart. Like everything was completely normal. Like Hermione Granger and
Draco Malfoy getting off together was perfectly ordinary.

Their camp was packed up and they were more than an hour into their climb when she finally gave
up waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It was a steep hike and they mostly had to cut back and forth across the incline instead of attacking
it head on. Coats and jumpers were quickly stowed away in favour of shirtsleeves. Up close it was
a much more daunting climb than it had appeared from a distance, and she guessed it would
probably take two days to get to the top, all things considered.

It was a necessary evil.

Hermione hadn’t said anything but their food stock was running low. She had begun
supplementing their meals with things she found growing wild, like nettles and kale, but it was too
early in the year to be able to rely on foraging. Things were going to start getting much more
difficult if they didn’t find their way out soon.

At least the physical exertion helped sustain the feeling they were progressing.

Hermione took the lead early on, picking careful routes up the steeper passes. The difficult hike
wasn’t conducive to conversation and for once she actually found herself grateful for it; it was a
helpful check against any impulses to bring up what happened the night before, something she was
certain would lead to terrible, awkward, humiliating things.

Still, they found ways to stay occupied.

"Powdered unicorn horn," Draco called, slightly breathless with the climb.

"Powdered porcupine quills," Hermione returned over her shoulder.

"Valerian root."

"Taking the easy way out, huh? Syrup of Hellebore."

"It's called strategy- you should try it,” he jeered, “Powdered moonstone."

Hermione wasn’t sure exactly how the game started, a sighting of a common potion ingredient
maybe, but it certainly helped pass the time. One of them would name an ingredient, then the other
would name another ingredient that it was used in a potion with, and they carried on alternating
until they'd listed all the components for a potion, or until one of them screwed up. It got quite
competitive. Debates on brewing method and theory occasionally followed.

It would have been a good distraction to have in the tent, she thought ruefully, but frowned to
herself when she realized Harry and Ron probably would've thought she was trying to trick them
into doing homework. Might not have been much of a challenge for her either, she conceded.

"Dried nettles," she started a new round as he drew up to where she’d stopped for a moment’s rest.

"Porcupine quills," he offered as they continued on.

"Snake fangs."

He paused, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, "I don't think I know this one."

Hermione guffawed, "Oh come on, it's elementary."

"Guess it's just not a potion I've ever needed."

"Wow. So we finally have an answer to the question of whether Malfoy is more proud or more
vain," she smirked, "Vanity wins."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he sniffed.

"You're honestly going to pretend you don't know how to make a cure for boils- a first year potion
?"

"Is that what you were going for? I wouldn't know. I don't blemish."

"Then what's that spot on your chin?" she looked pointedly at his jaw.

Draco clapped a hand over his chin, eyes wide, " What? "

Hermione bumped him with her shoulder, laughing as she picked up her pace to take the lead
again, "You're too easy."

"So I don't have a spot?" he called after her, "Granger?"

She only laughed more and increased her clip, scrambling up a rocky bit of incline with gusto.

A few hours later though, her relative good humour was failing. Draco was struggling to keep up.
At first she'd ribbed him about it, but as the day went on she realized he was truly labouring just to
keep her in sight.

He might be a spoiled ponce but he was undeniably fit, much more so than she. To say nothing of
his size advantage. Something was wrong. A knot of anxiety was forming in her gut.

When she spotted a reasonably thick growth of trees not far off the line they'd been taking up the
ridge she stopped to wait for him to catch up.

"I think we should stop here for the day," she said decisively, although it could hardly have been
three o’clock.

"Are you sure?" He was wheezing lightly and his brow glistened with perspiration.

"We could do with a good rest. Come on."

He didn't argue, which was a red flag in and of itself.

The band of trees scattered along this portion of the slope really wasn’t much, but they found a
spot that seemed reasonably protected from the wind. Draco sat down heavily, leaning against the
trunk of a large tree with his long legs stretched out and his head tipped back, saying he just needed
a minute to rest.

When Hermione returned a short while later from gathering up some kindling, he was fast asleep.
His cheeks were still flushed pink and there was a pinched look to his face. Sighing, she pulled the
blankets from her bag and spread them over his legs, then, careful not to disturb him, she felt his
forehead.

Definitely warm.

She cursed to herself- he probably caught a cold from that stupid swim. Of course. Because
obviously things weren't going badly enough.

After getting the fire going she sat down, resting her head in her hands and studying Draco as he
slept. He looked all soft and boyish and sort of pathetic and she felt her heart give a distinct tug.
She groaned. This truce, or whatever it was, was getting well out of hand.

Even as she tried to summon up fortifying memories of all the ways he'd been insufferable and
irritating over the past couple weeks she found herself, unaccountably, smiling. Fondly.

She was in no way prepared to deal with… tender feelings toward Draco Malfoy. She could handle
him being intelligent, could cope with him being easy to talk to, could even tolerate him being
attractive, but provoking indefinable tenderness was way over the line. Especially after last night.

Yet, there it was.

Giving herself a mental shake she tried to refocus on less complex problems. What to do for food.
How they could get back to London. Where to find a wand. Horcruxes.

And if her mind wandered back to Draco being sick, well, it was because of logistical concerns. A
matter of considering liabilities.

It was hours before he woke up, grumbling, “Hey. Did I fall asleep?”

“Little bit. It’s fine.”

“I don’t feel great,” he pulled the blankets up to his shoulders.

“I know.” Hermione frowned as she picked through the remaining tins in her bag, trying to decide
what was most nourishing. “This is a shit time to get a cold, Malfoy.” She settled on the chickpea
dhal.

“I don’t think I’m sick.”

She fixed him with a look somewhere between pity and exasperation as she set aside her bag. “Of
course you are. You’ve got a fever,” she crawled over and pressed the back of her hand to his
forehead to prove the point.

“I don’t think-” he swallowed “-I don’t think it’s a cold. I think it’s my leg.”

“What?”

“My leg. It’s been hurting... it doesn’t look right.”

“ What? ” Hermione’s heart sank. “Let me see.”

Before he had time to do anything she’d pulled the blankets off and her fingers were working open
the buckle of his belt.

“I can-” he reached to do it himself but Hermione swatted his hand away, already attacking his
button and fly. He lifted his hips to allow her to haul down his jeans.

Her hand flew to her mouth.

The skin around the gashes on his upper thigh was a grayish purple and a mottling of dark red
blotches cascaded toward his knee.

“Malfoy,” she breathed.

When she met his gray eyes it felt like she’d been run through. His face was set in a grim
expression.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Can’t do anything about it. Didn’t seem to be a point.”

“But you complain about everything ,” she objected helplessly, her eyes wide with incipient panic,
“How long has it been like this?”

“It’s just started hurting again in the last few days. The rash- I don’t know, but it’s getting worse.
The pain, too.”

“Okay,” she blinked, “Okay. Shit.”

Draco started to pull his jeans back up but she stopped him.

“We’ll flush it with water, I’ll find some sphagnum moss to pack it with, and then I think your suit
trousers will be better than the denim.”

“Is that Healer’s orders?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. You just lay down and shut up. I mean... rest. I’ll be right back.”

She hopped up and went off to where she thought she’d seen some moss. Her heart was pounding.
This was bad. This was much worse than a cold.

For the next hour or so she muttered away to herself as she undertook dressing his wound, making
dhal and tea, tending the fire, and being alternately caustic and kind toward her patient.

Truthfully she had no idea what she was doing and a low-grade hysteria was overtaking her,
compelling her to snatch at whatever task, quip, or impulse presented itself.

She wasn’t prepared for this.

Attempts at conversation were half-hearted. Draco was morose and Hermione had no idea what to
say anymore.

She forced him to drink tea and eat. Without any direct means of treatment, she reasoned that all
they could do was give his body its best chance to heal itself. Rest, nourishment, hydration.
He slept on and off while Hermione rambled and fidgeted until finally it was dark and she tucked
herself in under the blankets beside him.

“Hey,” he said groggily, barely awake, and lifted his arm slightly in invitation. She slipped in
against his side, laying her head in the crook of his shoulder and tucking her leg between his,
careful not to jostle the injured one.

“Goodnight,” she whispered, but he’d already fallen back to sleep.

 Chapter 8
Chapter by smokybaltic

Draco had been reticent at first about Hermione carrying on the climb alone, but he was much
more amenable to the idea after enduring all her fussing that morning.

Hermione saw to his leg and prepared breakfast, then she upended her beaded bag to make sure
everything was at his disposal, all while yammering endlessly about what he should/might/could
do in her absence.

Finally he just crawled back under the blankets, told her he was going to sleep, and closed his eyes
determinedly.

Even so, she couldn’t help adjusting his blankets before she left, hesitating through a few moments
with the feeling there was something more she ought to do, but eventually forcing herself to go.

It felt wrong leaving someone so vulnerable alone in the middle of nowhere, but there really wasn’t
anything helpful she could do for him. Continuing on the hike was the only useful thing to do.

She pushed herself hard. Her calves were burning from yesterday’s climb but she knew she was
only going to go until noon or so and then turn around, so she needed to cover as much ground as
possible. It drove her to be a bit overly ambitious with what slopes she thought she could handle,
and she had broken nails, scraped knees, and grass-stains absolutely everywhere before long.

At what she guessed was just a little after noon she wasn’t at the summit but she came upon an
outcrop that provided a good view. It was a bit precarious, but she threw a leg over the top to brace
herself and clung on for dear life.

A postcard-perfect Highland landscape spread out before her.

She stared long and hard.

The horizon was all trees but there was a small, relatively low flying plane that she thought was
descending in the general direction of what might be some lights. Was that a curl of smoke? She
realized now it might’ve been easier to tell in the dark if there was a town or something but she
couldn’t wait around for that. If she didn’t return before nightfall Draco might do something stupid
like go looking for her.

Having gathered what information she could, she descended back down to their campsite as
quickly as she could, sliding intentionally down a few slopes. Sliding unintentionally down a few
more.

When she got back she found Draco sitting against a tree, scratching at the dirt with a stick. He
looked up hopefully but he didn’t rise and there was still a tightness around his eyes that told her he
didn’t feel much better.

She told him what she could. They were probably two days off from something . It might be a farm
or a house or a town. There also wasn’t really a way to account for the terrain, which could
certainly make it a much longer trek than it looked to be.

He, predictably, suggested they really ought to drink a toast to the good news. She only rolled her
eyes and told him alcohol was the last thing he needed right now.
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to carry on tomorrow,” he admitted over a tin of minestrone soup.

“Yeah,” Hermione fidgeted with the strings of her hoodie. She’d known that, but it was a difficult
point to discuss. “So… I could go. I could go and bring back help.”
“No- that’s- once we’re separated we probably won’t be able to find each other again,” he frowned,
“And it’s dangerous. Just… give me tomorrow, yeah? If we stay here tomorrow, it’ll probably
improve and I can keep going. Maybe even just half the day. We could leave in the afternoon.”

She agreed because it was easier than arguing. When they laid down for the night though, she was
still considering whether she should go. Draco’s leg didn’t look any better and he still had a low
fever. He hadn’t said anything about the pain but he’d hardly moved all night and from the clipped
way he’d been talking, she guessed it hurt quite a bit.

In another day...

She curled into his side and wrapped an arm around him.

Apparently caring about this man was going to hurt much worse than hating him.

She stayed.

The day dawned gray and foggy, promising to live up to the dreary reputation of the Highlands.
Draco was out of sorts and feverish and had to keep checking his temper. Hermione’s mood wasn’t
much better.

It was another nightmare scenario of being confronted with a problem she couldn’t do anything
about. The idea that there were scads of books, probably in every shop and home, probably
literally everywhere but here , that could tell her what to do to help was also frustrating beyond
belief.

She didn’t have much medical knowledge but she understood infection was capable of taking a
swift and ruthless course. Her mind flooded with words like toxic shock, septicemia, sepsis, blood
poisoning, gangrene. She didn’t know what they actually meant though, didn’t know how to tell
what he had, and knew even less about how any of it could be treated.

All she knew was his leg looked worse every time she checked it.

While Draco napped all she could do was gather wood, stoke the fire, and think. And think. And
think.

She should’ve gone .

They ate lunch and she sat beside him, leaning into his shoulder, sharing his blankets. There was a
drizzling rain but they were keeping dry with the hoods of their jumpers up. The ground hadn’t
turned muddy yet.

She was on the brink of dozing off herself when the quiet rustling of the wind and crackling of
burning wood was broken by a long mournful cry sounding down through the hills.

An augurey.

They turned instinctively to look at each other and Hermione’s heart dropped at what she saw in
Draco’s eyes.
“I guess it’s really going to rain,” she said preemptively.

“Always the optimist.”

“It doesn’t mean-” death. She couldn’t even say it.

“I think... it might. This time.”

“It’s just a superstition. A stupid superstition.”

“Granger.”

“There’s research. I read Gulliver Pokeby’s work on the subject and in his field studies he found
that although-”

“ Granger."

“What?” she looked up into his eyes, daring him to say it so she could tell him he was wrong.

He held her gaze for a long moment before he said, “Have a drink with me? We can toast to stupid
superstitions.” He looked so calm, so sure .

She pressed her lips together and nodded slowly.

“Yeah?” he checked.

“Yeah.”

She reached for her bag and pulled out a bottle of the pink-tinted wine.

Draco’s face fell. While he could apparently remain stoic discussing his possible demise, sub-par
wine remained devastating.

She unscrewed the bottle - an act which elicited the same reaction from Draco that you might
expect from witnessing a particularly gory vivisection - and offered it to him.

“This is-” he wrinkled his nose disdainfully “- white zinfandel .”

Hermione put up her hands, “I just knicked it from a wedding, I had nothing to do with it.”

Draco took a cautious sip and grimaced. "This was served at a wedding ? This is a travesty. Who
did this to you?" he demanded.

She took the bottle back and had a swallow herself. It was horrendously sweet as it rolled over her
tongue, but the saccharine assault quickly gave way to a sharp sour flavour.

"It's… fine." Loyal as she was to the Weasleys, fine was the most flattering adjective she could
muster. "It was from Bill Weasley and Fleur Delacour's wedding."

"Delacour? The Beauxbatons tournament champion?" he glared at the bottle "I'd say she should
know better, but if she married a Weasley then clearly something's terribly amiss there."

"Hey! They're lovely."

"Did she maybe sustain some terrible head injury in that tournament? Get hit with a mentally
enfeebling curse?”
“Rude! You don’t have to have any if you don’t want it,” she took a liberal swig from the bottle
and refused to give in to the impulse to shudder afterward.

He grabbed the bottle back, “I’ll suffer through.” He took another drink and then stuck out his
tongue in disgust, “But Merlin, you could’ve warned me. This would have been disappointing
enough without all the build up.”

Hermione groaned, “It never stops with you, does it?”

"Well, give me-" he mimed checking a watch "- a few more days maybe, and then I'll be winding
things down."

"Don't do that,” she winced and tried to steal the bottle back. He held it out of reach long enough to
take another long drink before passing it over.

“Think we can make some tea? We need a chaser.”

Hermione almost spit her wine.

“You are a ridiculous man, I hope you realize. How are you still this high maintenance after
roughing it for like two weeks?” Still, she fished supplies for tea and a sleeve of crackers out of her
bag.

“This wine is what happens when people don’t have standards,” he gave a haughty sniff. “My good
taste is a public service. You should be thanking me.”

Hermione stopped what she was doing to stare at him.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“It’s just… you said it with a straight face and everything.” He looked at her blankly so she held
her hand out for the bottle, “Nevermind. I’ll take care of it on my end.” She was pretty confident
the pretension would get funnier with just a little more wine.

While things did generally get funnier as the first bottle ran low, Dracos’ humour also took a turn
for the macabre.

“A man ought to be entitled to a better last drink than this. If I’m not already disowned, going out
on a white zinfandel would be grounds,” he shook his head before continuing on gravely “I am no
longer Malfoy. If you ever tell anyone this story Granger, do me the kindness of saying it was a
French Burgundy.”

“But what should I say about your attire?” she asked with faux concern as she eyed his baggy jeans,
the knees of which had fully given way sometime in the last week.

“Fuck, you leave that right out ! In fact-” he began working at the buckle of his belt.

“No, no!” she laughed, trying to pull his hands away as he swatted at her defensively, “I was only
joking! I won’t tell anyone.”
He stilled but fixed her with a menacing look. She raised a hand like she was going to solemnly
swear, but said “Not for weeks .”

Draco growled and went back to trying to divest himself of the offending Weasley denim while she
grabbed at his wrists, hardly able to speak for laughing, “I’m only joking! Don’t! I promise. Stop!”
“Not a soul, Granger. It’s my eternal shame.” His eyes went a bit wide. “Fuck, maybe I’m already
dead. Maybe this is purgatory and the wine and the clothes are my penance. And the tea. Granger!
Maybe we died. ”

Hermione giggled, “Are you drunk ?”

“That might be the least of my problems,” he gestured emphatically. “How would we know?”

“If we were dead?”

“Yeah.”

Hermione tipped the bottle up to drain the last drops and then went digging in her bag for the
second bottle. “Give me a minute. I”ll come up with something.”

“Think about it. It could make sense.”

“Why would we be together though?”

He snapped his fingers and pointed at her, so close his finger nearly booped her nose, “That makes
the most sense of all. Opposites. Learning shit from each other. Balance and the universe and…
stuff.”

“Pffft we’re not opposites.”

“Uhh..’

“The hair, I will concede. Opposites. But, I mean… we kind of know all the same shit. We’re
ambitious. There may also be some aceb-asser -acerbity and then, I mean, I’m smart and you just
have a smart mouth, but the endgame is kinda similar.”

“I have the smart mouth? Witch, you’ve done nothing but sass me for weeks. You’re sassing me
right now .”

Hermione’s hand fluttered to her chest in mock disbelief,“ Me? I don’t know what you’re talking
about.”

He grabbed for the hood of her jumper and pulled it down over her face in retaliation.

“And the violence!” she shoved the hood back up and off, patting at her staticky hair, “We have
the violence in common.”

Draco had a rueful smile on his face as he shook his head, “I’m not violent.”

She softened. “Yeah. Yeah, I know,” she said, because she did . Then she cheerfully volunteered,
“I kept Rita Skeeter in a jar for a week once. Oh! And I set Snape on fire. And I may have led
Umbridge to the centaurs with intent.”

“No you didn’t,” he scoffed, before looking at the expression on her face. “Fuck me, you’re a
menace.”

“A righteous menace, though.”

“I’m surprised I’ve gotten off so lightly, with a track record like that.”

“Maybe I’m biding my time,” she bumped his foot with hers.
“Musn’t dawdle. The hour grows late.”

“Malfoy-” she warned.

He threw a few bits of bark onto the fire before turning to look at her and her breath hitched as their
gazes locked. Draco had always had beautiful eyes, but now, full of sadness and resignation, they
were absolutely devastating. She couldn’t look away.

“Let me make my jokes. This is my last hurrah.”

Hermione felt a fissure opening in her chest, because she suddenly understood he really believed
it.

She should’ve gone.

Indulging his maudlin humour, she supposed, was the least she could do. She could give him that.

“Always such a drama queen,” she whispered a little hoarsely.

“Have a little more wine, Granger,” he tapped the bottle. “I’d wager anything on you being a
happy, sing-y drunk.”

She absolutely was.

Hermione took a fortifying drink. “No bet.”

“Excellent. I look forward to it.”

“And you?” she handed the bottle to him, “I bet you get sulky. Poor little rich boy and all that.”

He ran a hand through his hair, grinning a little. “I guess you’ll find out.”

The action was strangely compelling. “Your hair,” she said before she realized she was speaking.

“What?” he patted at it with concern.

“It’s very... very…”

“Very what? ”

Silky. Sexy. Alluring. Touchable looking.

“Very blonde.” Dammit. She was definitely moving past tipsy.

He stared at her. She stared back. He burst out laughing.

“Brilliant as always.”

“Yep.” Nothing to do now but own it.

“Anything else?”

Your face is also ridiculous and I want to rub my cheek against that delectable looking scruff on
your jaw.

“Nope. No.”
“Nothing at all?” he cocked an eyebrow. “No other astonishing facts to share with the class?”

“I’m good. I am out of words now. Completely out of words,” she said formally. “I ask that you
please respect my privacy at this difficult time.”

“You’re a very strange little person. You know that, yeah?”

She gave a dramatic shrug. “Genius is never understood in its own time.”

“You know, I can absolutely believe it would take scholars bloody centuries to figure out what’s
going on in here.” He dropped a hand on top of her head and gave it a little shake.

“Hey!”

From there it was a short trip to an academic dick measuring contest, and then it was on to House
rivalries.

“Not being a very good Slytherin though, are you?” she goaded. “Drinking with the enemy. You
might divulge super secret snake-y business.”

He rolled his eyes. "I'm sorry, Granger, but I think I'm going to have to disappoint you."

"How’s that?"

"I can't think of a single interesting deathbed confession I might have to offer."

“That can’t be right.”

“My sins are notorious.”

“So, come up with something else. Humiliation, gossip- I’ll take whatever drunk confessions
you’ve got on offer.” Drunk confessions, she was insisting to both herself and him.

He sneered, “You already know I’m going to die a virgin.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she said, because she really didn’t know what else to say.

“It’s true.”

“Trying to get laid, Malfoy? I should’ve known this was all just a bid for pity sex.” Joke, joke,
joke- it was better than the alternative.

Draco snorted. “I hate to disappoint, but as much as I do pity you, I think that it might be a bit
beyond me at this point.” He tapped his bad leg to make his point and then hissed in pain from the
ill-advised contact.

“Are you okay?” Hermione rose to her knees, looking frantically at the leg she could see nothing of
under blankets and clothes. Her head spun a little.

“It’s fine. The wine helps. Best medicine for it, probably.”

“God, it’s not. This is such a bad idea,” Hermione winced even as she took another sip, settling
back in beside him. “Eat the crackers. The last thing you need to do is sick-up from this.”

“You spend a lot of time looking after drunk sods in Gryffindor, don’t you?”
“Not as much as you’d think.”

“Don’t tell me you’re the one who needs looking after?”

“Hmmm... more than you’d think,” she laughed.

“Give that back over,” Draco starfished his hand in the direction of the bottle. They were quiet for
a moment before he hummed a little. “There is… There is something that's been weighing on my
conscience lately. Maybe. A little bit."

“Alright, let’s have it.”

“Nahhh,” he bared his teeth a little. “Nevermind. I don’t- I don’t-”

"C'mon," she bumped his shoulder with hers.

He shook his head vehemently, “No, forget it.”

“Malfoy- come onnnn.”

"Well, it's just- fuck, it's really embarrassing," he dropped his head in his hands, then peeked at her
over his fingertips, "Fuck. It's just… I-I really like your hair."

“Fuck off,” she groaned, "That is not funny.”

“No, I mean it.” He reached over to take a curl between his fingers and pulled it straight before
releasing it, watching it bounce back with a look of profound concentration on his face. "I've
always liked it. I want to be buried with a lock of it. It's going to be my token across the River Styx.
Proof for Saint Peter that I'm in good with someone who belongs on the inside."

"You're ridiculous."

"Wishing you got me drunk sooner, aren't you?"

"But then I would've missed out on all this excellent gallows humour. Now that would be a
tragedy."

She waited for him to make his counter-quip but he only put his hand over his mouth to cover a
smile, looking at her with something very near fondness.

Suddenly she was very aware of just how cozy all this was. She was pressed right against his side,
his face was right there. She had even, at some stage, apparently looped her arms around his arm.
She wasn’t quite holding his hand but she’d wrapped her fingers around his palm. And well, there
was just an awful lot of touching and smiling going on here, wasn’t there?

His assessment of her being a ‘happy, sing-y’ drunk had been accurate, but incomplete: she was
also a notoriously affectionate drunk.

She had a sudden swell of panic, half from this sudden consciousness, and half from the impulse
she felt to say something about it. In a flash she was disentangled and on her feet.

“Fire’s, uh, getting low!” Wide eyed, she began chucking bits of wood into the flames. Mostly.
Accuracy wasn’t exactly on tap at the moment.

When she turned back she found him bent over laughing so hard he was shaking.
“What!?” Fuck, maybe he was a legilimens.

“No, no- carry on,” he choked out.

“No, it’s good now. We’re cool. It’s all… cool. Nothing- nothing to worry about here,” she
gabbled, holding up her hands like she was trying to calm a riotous crowd.

“Such a lightweight,” Draco smiled goofily up at her. “Do I get my song soon?”

“I’m not singing. That’s not- no. Nope.” She shook her head violently for emphasis but quickly
stopped after discovering doing such a thing was liable to put the world off its axis.

“C’mon! What if I make it my last wish?”

“Fuck right off.”

“Granger ,” he whined.

“No, I’m self conscious,” she crossed and uncrossed her arms. “You’re looking at me. I’m all- on
display.”

“So come here,” he held his arms open. “I’ll close my eyes.”

“Fuck.” She slumped in defeat and crawled back under the blankets, leaning back into his chest so
her head rested under his chin and his arms wrapped around her ribs.

“Good girl,” he gave her a little squeeze. “Do you take requests?”

“No .”

“Okay, okay. Go on then.” Then he coughed over "Dance Like a Hippogriff".

Hermione rolled her eyes. She didn’t have a vast repertoire. There were songs she could sing along
with, but not many she knew by heart. In sixth year there had been a fair few parties in the
Gryffindor common room that she’d spent with Seamus Finnegan close at hand, and they’d gotten
in the habit of merrily brutalizing traditional Scotch and Irish airs toward the end of the evening.

There was really only one choice for a rainy afternoon out on the Scottish moors.

Hermione started in on The Parting Glass tentatively, her voice low and wavering, but grew in
confidence as she allowed the wine to fog her notice.

“Of all the money that e'er I had

I've spent it in good company
And all the harm that e'er I've done
Alas it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
To memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

Of all the comrades that e'er I had

They are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e'er I had
They would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and I'll softly call
Good night and joy be with you all

A man may drink and not be drunk

A man may fight and not be slain
A man may court a pretty girl
And perhaps be welcomed back again
But since it has so ought to be
By a time to rise and a time to fall
Come fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

Good night and joy be with you all.”

It was strikingly quiet after she’d finished and for a moment she thought Draco had fallen asleep,
but then one arm slipped away from her middle and took up the wine bottle. She heard him take a
deep draught and then felt him drop a soft kiss on top of her head.

“Brilliant, Granger,” he mumbled.

“It’s less jolly without a crowd,” she frowned a little. “ Ron always liked when we’d do that one,
but the lazy bugger apparently can’t be bothered to listen in with his little... putter-outer. Ron .” Her
resentment toward the (probably) unsentient Deluminator, its creator, and its present owner were
growing. “Seamus and I love a good pub sing,” she explained, “And Ron just thinks it’s the
funniest thing.”

Draco shifted beneath her. “Is that so?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Fucking Ron,” she continued bitterly, mostly to herself, “Fucking deloo-Deluminator . S’just for
Harry apparently. No help for ol’ Hermione. Not like they fucking need me or anything. Not like
they’d be sitting with their thumbs up their bums if it weren’t for me.” She giggled.

“Granger?”

“ Thumbs up bums ,” she giggled some more.

“Oh fuck, there it is. Hit our limit, have we?” he observed.

“Almost. Just need a lil bit...” she pinched her thumb and index finger together demonstratively
before reaching for the bottle.

“I think you’ll do, love,” he held the bottle out of reach. “Deadman's prerogative.”

“Well isn’t that just a convenient ‘scuse?” she sassed, turning her head so she could glare up at
him.

“Not particularly. Not convenient at all , actually.” He tipped the bottle up to drink the remainder
of its contents in large gulping draughts.

“Hey!” she protested.

“All gone. Sorry, love.”

Hermione tried to cross her arms in what was meant to be an indignant fashion, but his arms, settled
just under her bust, made it an ungainly affair.

“Drinks will be on me next time,” he placated, nosing at her hair.

“That’s right. ” She craned her neck up so she could fix him with a menacing look and found
herself with her forehead bumping his. “Next time,” she vowed, “That’s right. ”

He nudged her nose with his and for a moment she forgot what exactly was going on as she was
confronted with hooded eyes that were an absolutely lovely stony shade of blue with a gorgeous
charcoal ring around the iris. Only inches away now. Why was he so pretty ?

She closed her eyes. “Next time,” she repeated, satisfied with his acknowledgement there would be
a next time.

He wasn’t dying . Stupid, stupid, stupid thing to have ever thought. He was too Malfoy to do
anything so prosaic. He was obviously very much alive. She was breathing his breath, he was
breathing hers. Alive .

“What’d you say?” she mumbled, having lost the thread of the conversation.

Draco groaned. “You’re a menace .”

“M’not.” She gripped his forearms and turned her head so she could nestle back into the warmth of
his broad chest. “S’raining,” she observed. There was a steady pattering against the leaves
overhead. “Imma good girl. You said I was a good girl,” she smiled with satisfaction, remembering
how he’d said it, letting her eyes drift closed. She couldn’t quite place why, but there had been
something wonderful about it. Good girl. She was a good girl.

“Fuck my life,” Draco breathed

She reached behind her to pat blindly at his hair, “Gonna be okay.”

Then he must've dropped his head to his chest or shuffled down a bit because she could hear his
breath, just a little raspy, in her ear as she drifted off to sleep.

When she blinked awake it was twilight and for the first few disorienting moments the trees
overhead oscillated in a most alarming fashion. There also seemed to be a lot of Draco all up in her
space. He had half fallen over her in his sleep, creating all sorts of odd angles and entanglements.
Most notably, there was a large hand draped over her left breast and her head had been pressed
down into her shoulder.

Gingerly, she tried to slide down further to free herself while also bracing Draco up so he didn’t
faceplant when she rolled away. It took some effort but eventually she managed to get them
rearranged into much more decorous side-by-side positions.

Able now to focus she realized she probably hadn’t been asleep for long. The wine was still a
factor but it was more of a languid haze now. She dug through her bag until she found a tin of
chickpeas to pick at.

Draco woke up not long after, rubbing at his eyes and trying to roll the kinks out of his neck.

“How’re you feeling?” she asked.

“Glorious,” he winced. “Fucking leg. And head.”

Hermione fixed him with her infamous ‘ I told you so, didn’t I? ’ look.

“I stand by my decision,” he said grimly. “Even though the wine was an abomination. What’re you
eating?”

She passed over the tin and then conjured some water for them both and stacked some branches
onto the fire.They ribbed each other about silliness from earlier, but both were yawning before
long.

“I think I just need to sleep some more.” Draco clenched his jaw as he moved from sitting against
the tree to laying down closer to the fire.

He was clearly in pain and the fact that he wasn’t complaining about it was freaking Hermione out
more than anything. She didn’t know him well enough to understand what that might mean. There
were so many ways in which his behaviour was entirely predictable - the pretension, the snark, the
fastidiousness - but when it came to the big things, she couldn’t make him out.

What was she missing?

She was so lost in thought considering it that Draco had to call her name a couple times to draw her
attention as he held open the blankets to her.

Settling in curled up at his side she splayed her hand over his chest and pressed in close, like
maybe with more contact she could get her answers by osmosis.

A few minutes later she ventured, “Still awake?”

“Mostly,” he grumbled.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

She heaved a sigh. “My blood pressure is never going to recover from our time together, I hope you
realize.” She poked his side. “I’m being serious.”

“Do I get to ask you a question back?”

“Bloody Slytherin. Fine. Just- I need to know,” she looked up so she could see his face properly.
“Why did you apparate me away?”

He shrugged, “It’s not like I could cast a banishing charm on you.”

“I know that .”

“So... I don’t understand the question.”

“I meant- why do anything?”

“She was going to kill you.” It was said so matter-of-factly that Hermione couldn’t help
shuddering. She’d been trying to ignore that probability.

“But... why would you care?” she pressed.

His eyebrows drew together, “You really think so little of me? That it wouldn’t bother me to watch
you die ?”
“You hated me.”

“But I knew you.” He said it like it was offensively obvious. “I knew you when you were eleven
years old-” his mouth quirked up at the corners for a second “-so bloody awkward, but still
confident as hell. I mean, you irritated the hell out of me, but watching you dying, sobbing on my
drawing room floor… I’ve seen some fucked up things, but I couldn’t watch that.” He shook his
head like he was trying to dispel the image.

He was quiet for a minute before continuing, “It hasn’t felt like I’ve had many choices the last few
years. I know you don’t see it that way-” he preempted her “-but that’s how it was. Things just kept
happening and happening and I had to go along, but outing Potter, watching you… it was too
much. Just, too much.”

She had expected there to have been some strategy to it. That somehow apparating away with her
would work to his advantage, that it might be a power play or an insurance policy or maybe just an
opening he had seized without thinking it all the way through.

She had expected a motive.

Instead she found nothing but basic humanity.

He was right to ask- did she really think so little of him?

Draco had seen enough humanity in her to risk everything to save her, but she had failed to see
enough of it in him to even imagine he’d care.

She turned her face into his shoulder, not saying anything, breathing in the smoky scent. A minute
later, as softly as she could, she pressed a kiss into his jumper.

She hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He didn’t.

“Malfoy?” she mumbled.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

He shifted over a little so he could rest his cheek against the top of her head.

They stayed like that until Draco dozed off, waking a few minutes later with a little start to mutter
that he might be getting sleepy. He was beginning to shiver.

“It’s okay, go to sleep,” she soothed. Reaching up, she briefly pressed her hand to his forehead.
Definitely warm.

Fuck .
 Chapter 9
Chapter by smokybaltic

A restless night followed. Draco’s fever was worse and while he felt like he was burning up, he
was shaking violently with cold. Hermione did what she could with the fire and piled everything
from her bag on top of them, along with a few evergreen branches for good measure. Still, he
clutched at her like she was the only thing standing between him and hypothermia.

In the morning he was groggy and still chilled, although the weather was the mildest it’d been. She
forced him to drink tea and eat before he was pulling her back down under the blankets with him.

“Your body’s fighting the infection,” she tried to sound like she knew what she was talking about.

“My body’s getting its arse kicked, if that’s the case.”

She hesitated over how to say what she needed to say but eventually realized being direct was
probably best. “Malfoy, I think I should go.”
“What? Where?”

“You need a doctor.”

He groaned, “It’ll be days. No. No, don’t go.”

“I’ll set you up here with food and everything. I’ll leave markers so I can find my way back. From
the top of the hill the other day it really looked like we aren’t too far. I’m sure if I keep on-” she
trailed off as Draco shook his head.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to find the way out,” his eyes were pleading, “Later.”

“But you need-”

“No.”

“Malfoy, if I don’t-”

"I don't want to die alone." His voice broke as he said it.

“You won’t,” Hermione shook her head vehemently against his chest, swallowing hard, "I know
your type: you'll die at an obscenely old age, in bed with your fifth wife. She'll be very blonde and
about sixty years younger than you."

"Sounds lovely-" he chuckled then gave a low hiss of pain "-but you'll do." His hand rose,
tentatively, to wrap around her hand, resting flat on his chest. "You'll do fine," he repeated the
words after a moment. She wasn't sure if he meant them for now or later.

“Malfoy-”

“Don’t,” his voice was rough. “Just- don’t. I can feel it. I know . Granger… I don’t think it’ll be
long. I don't want to be alone.”

She could only shake her head, burying her face in his shoulder.

“It’s- it’s not like I expected to make it very long anyway,” he continued. “It's not that I don't..." he
blinked rapidly and cleared his throat "...There are things I would've liked to do. I would've liked to
help you. With anything. I would've... But, maybe it's better this way. I could’ve been a chew toy
for the werewolf or had my soul fed to a Dementor. Maybe this is sparing me something worse.
Imagine what Bella-”

“Please don’t,” she interrupted. “ Please stop. I’ll stay. For now. When you start feeling a little
better then I’ll go.”

“Good," he let out a shaky exhale. "Good. Now, I know I'm not in a great position to be asking for
favours, but... I have a favour to ask."

She squeezed his hand by way of answer.

"I need you to tell my mum," he closed his eyes for a moment, "Tell her where to find me. Tell her
there wasn't any pain. That I was okay with this."

"Stop it," Hermione admonished.

"No, this is important. Tell her it wasn't painful, and that I, you know, love her. You'll say it
better." He swallowed hard before continuing, "Don't let her be the one to come for me though, by
then the foxes and the crows..." he shuddered.

She thought that might be it but then he forced a smile "And if you tell her about the last couple
weeks, if you could skip the bits where I was a surly bugger, I'd appreciate it."

Hermione gave a watery chuckle, "But if I say you were a joy I'll lose all credibility."

"Oof," he mimed pulling a knife out of his heart, "Don't pull your punches, do you? Come on now.
You're clever, you'll find a way to sell it."

God, why did he have to be so- so-

“Malfoy?” she swallowed.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve been a joy.”

He sighed and when she glanced up she found him looking at her like she’d said the strangest
thing. “You’re going to have to work on your delivery.”

It wasn’t long until he was dozing again and the morning had passed.

“Do you need help getting up?” she asked gently when he stirred.

“Nah.”

“Have you been up at all today?”

He shook his head. “M’fine. Don’t need to. Too cold to go.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d moved from this
spot, which meant that in spite of all the fluids she’d been forcing on him, he hadn’t needed the loo.
His kidneys were probably shutting down.

His fever was also worsening and when he began to say strange things she worried it might be
getting to dangerous levels. She wasn’t sure if he was telling her about a quidditch match or if he
actually thought he was there. He brought up an Arithmancy assignment and seemed to be trying to
actually do the work as if he were on deadline.

It was horrible.

When he seemed to be on the cusp of falling asleep again she whispered to him she was just going
to stretch her legs and got up. She did in fact need to stretch her legs, and find more kindling, but
mostly she needed to be alone.

Walking out through the trees she finally let the tears come as she gathered up sticks.

Why couldn’t bad things stop happening for one fucking minute?

Her vision blurred as she continued to mindlessly bend and rise, collecting more stupid wood for
another stupid fire in this unending nightmare. She’d never known how trapped you could feel in
such a vast emptiness.

Not able to properly see where she was going she tripped and fell forward hard, sticks digging
harshly into her chest.

Sitting miserably on the ground she finally broke.

“Please, Ron. Please, please, please, please, please, please. It’s got to be now, you have to come
now,” she choked on a sob, “Please, Ron. I don’t want to have to sit here and watch him die. I
don’t want to. Please, Ron, don’t make me .”

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes and gasped for breath, chest heaving.

It wasn’t fair . They were all just kids. Too much was being asked. This was too much. They
weren’t supposed to have so many people depending on them. They weren’t supposed to be
frightened for their lives, given impossible tasks, hunted, attacked, tortured. They weren’t
supposed to die alone in the woods.

She’d been doing her best to keep it together in front of Draco. Insisting he was going to be fine and
making a joke of it all, but she knew. Deep down, she knew.

All the powerlessness she’d felt over the last year, and especially over the last couple weeks, paled
now in comparison to watching someone die from a stupid little cut.

“Please, Ron. Please,” she whimpered one last plea as she swiped roughly at her eyes, trying to
calm her breathing. “Ron, please .”

She needed to look composed by the time she got back.

This wasn’t about her. None of this was. Whatever was going to happen she just needed to get
through it and one day, one far off day, she’d let herself feel it.

She straightened her clothes and cleared her throat until she could breathe properly again.

Then she gathered her stupid wood and made her way back. There was nothing for it.

Draco was hovering on the edge of consciousness when she returned.

“C’mere,” he urged, and she sat down beside him, leaning back against the tree. He lay his head
down on her lap, wrapping himself around her legs. She sighed and ran her fingers through his hair.
This wasn’t getting better.

He was half delirious. His eyes had a strange, bright look to them and his cheeks were tinged pink.

“Cold,” he shuddered, gripping her tighter and sandwiching her feet between his knees. He already
had all the blankets and layers available, so she sent an extra ‘Incendio’ toward the fire in the hope
of stoking it up a bit.

“Fucking warming charm’s not working again,” he muttered, “Stupid to put us in bloody dungeons.
My father will hear about this.”

Hermione’s whole body shook with suppressed laughter but she patted his back consolingly. The
muttering continued although she mostly couldn’t make it out, until eventually he drifted off to
sleep. Trapped in a manually applied Body Bind there was nothing for her to do but sit and think as
Draco dozed, and there was nothing good to think about. Even if she had a wand, she wasn’t sure if
a patronus wouldn’t be beyond her at this point.

She wondered what Harry and Ron were doing right now, where they were. Had they found any
more horcruxes? Had they joined back up with the Order or were they still going it alone? Why
hadn’t they sent another patronus? Maybe they thought she was dead.

It might be best if they did.

How was it that horcruxes and her friends presuming her dead had become the cheeriest train of
thought available?

Why didn’t she have a book? She’d never leave home without one again she fervently swore. And
a medical encyclopedia too, probably.

She continued to run her fingers through Draco’s hair as she frowned down at his unconscious
face, slack and flushed. There was, she realized, the faintest smattering of pale freckles on the tops
of his cheekbones.

God, she wanted to tease him for it, but they were past that now.

Time was just going on and on. It was late afternoon now and all Hermione was thinking about
was the clock.

How far could she have gotten if she’d left this morning? Yesterday? Maybe she’d have been
arriving back with an air ambulance now. Maybe if they’d gone east instead of west at the loch
they’d have been in Inverness or Glasgow before his leg got bad.

Magic had spoiled her for travel. Apparition and portkeys made distance effectively meaningless. If
they just had a wand, they would have been out of here in less than a literal minute. Instead they’d
spent weeks wandering, probably in circles, in agony from traversing a measly mile over absurd
terrain. And now Draco was out of time.

If they could’ve just found a person. One person. A muggle with a mobile phone, even. A wizard
of any kind. Just- literally anyone . But it’s not like someone was just going to fall into their lap in
the middle of nowhere. Not when the goddamn Deluminator wasn’t working. There was a reason
her horcrux hunting strategy had been to hide in the wilderness, where no one could find them.
Except…

Holy shit.
“Malfoy! Malfoy, wake up!” she shook him but he only squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Come on,
sweetie, just for a minute. You need to wake up.” She patted at his cheeks and was just considering
actually slapping him because fuck, if he couldn’t wake up… But then his eyes were open. Glazed,
but open.

"Malfoy? Malfoy! I need you to- I need you-" she hovered over him, trying to get him to focus on
her, but his eyes were wandering the heavens "- Draco, please- " her voice cracked "-I need you to
do one thing. Just one little thing. Just say one word."

For a second he looked right at her and she thought he'd snapped out of it but then he bristled
"Don't be an idiot, you can't brew Sleeping Draught with billywig wings" before his eyes began
rolling again.

"Fuck, okay," Hermione gave a shaky exhale, "Okay."

There was only one other option.

Gently lifting his head, she slid out from under him. She stamped out their fire and gathered all
their possessions into her bag. Draco clung to the blankets when she tried to pull them away, so she
had to pry the cloth from his fists before stuffing them in the bag as well.

She surveyed the area. About a half dozen meters off there was a short, fairly sharp drop of maybe
three meters. It would do. The unused boughs and branches she'd collected for firewood were
tossed over the edge.

She took a couple minutes, pacing back and forth across the little clearing, turning over her plan in
her mind, looking for flaws. It would have been better, far better , if she’d thought of this a few
hours ago. But then, maybe Draco wouldn’t have gone along with it if he had the option.

Maybe he wouldn’t want this.

He had said… No, no. This was it. This was the plan that was going to work.

She returned to Draco's side and crouched down next to him. He was muttering, his head turning
erratically from side to side. His right hand, she noticed, kept clenching and unclenching, like he
was going for his wand.

"I wish there was another way," she bit her lip as she scanned his face. It was almost certainly
going to hurt later, but she wanted to remember this. His white blond hair was stuck to his
forehead, his brow was furrowed, his gray eyes were unfocused and wandering. "I wish we'd had a
proper goodbye but maybe- maybe we will. Somehow. Just don't give up. And don't hate me,
okay? Please don't hate me."

She leaned over him and took his chin between her thumb and finger, making one last attempt to
get him to come back to her- to no avail. She nodded with resignation.

"Okay. I'm sorry about everything that's about to happen. Really sorry, Draco. Be okay, okay? I
guess… I guess, goodbye." She bent over and briefly, gently, pressed her lips to his. A first and
last kiss. Then she rocked back onto the balls of her feet and took a deep breath before whispering,
"Voldemort."

There would only be seconds, she knew.

She kicked at Draco’s bad leg and, as fast as she could, she was up and sprinting for the ledge,
sliding over the precipice just as several ear splitting cracks of apparition sounded behind her.
Draco was crying out in pain from the blow she’d given him and jabbering away nonsensically.

Hermione landed hard on her heels and arse, immediately scrambling to pull the boughs she'd
tossed down earlier over herself, praying she hadn’t kicked up too much dirt. It wasn’t much
camouflage but hopefully the Snatchers were sufficiently preoccupied and wouldn't go looking.

She dug her fingers into the earth to anchor herself. It was an awkward position but any movement
might cause a wayward rock to roll off down the hill, or could dislodge one of the boughs she was
using for cover. There was absolutely nothing about this plan that wasn’t flimsy.

Intellectually she had known what was going to happen when she broke the taboo, but the reality of
summoning armed,dangerous Snatchers had unleashed a deluge of fear and adrenaline to her
system.

She couldn't make out much of what they were saying but she heard 'Malfoy' several times. One of
the men sounded skeptical, a woman's voice said something about a reward. Draco groaned loudly
and Hermione winced- someone was hurting him. He cried out again and she had to remind herself
she didn't have a wand.

If they ever stopped talking she was certain they’d find her by the deafening beating of her heart.

Finally the ringing sound of disapparation echoed down the mountain. She sat still and silent for
long minutes afterward. Schrodinger’s Malfoy awaited.

When she climbed back up to their camp it was deserted.

 Chapter 10
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

October 1999

Hermione glanced at the clock. Her hand was beginning to cramp with all her notetaking but the
lecture - her last of the week - was already five minutes overtime so she was sure it couldn’t go on
much longer.

Healer Rossi apparently had a real passion for fractures because she talked her way through four
false starts at class dismissal before finally concluding with, “Alright, well I hope you all have
been paying attention because I’m going to expect two rolls of parchment on the best approach for
healing the musculoskeletal system comprehensively using potions, and if you think I won’t notice
if you try to skip over joint realignment, you’re going to be bitterly disappointed. Due next Friday,
and you’ll need a passing grade if you expect to participate in the practical rotation at St. Mungo’s
next month.”

Hermione jotted down ‘joint realignment’ and then a few initial thoughts on the topic as the
classroom began to empty. She was still scribbling away when her concentration was broken by
someone clearing their throat.

“Granger.”

“Hm? Oh!” she looked up in surprise to find Theo Nott, her lanky, bespectacled classmate
hovering over her. “Nott. Did you need notes?”

“All set, thanks. It’s Friday, you know- time to cut loose, forget about orthopaedic trauma for a few
hours.”

She hummed noncommittally and rose from her desk, beginning to gather her things.

They weren’t friends, they didn’t talk.

“I was thinking of heading to The Giddy Goblin, do you know it? Bit out of the way but there’s no
grimy little pub finer.”

“I see..” She didn’t.

“Yeah, I’ll probably head there around eight or so.”

She stuffed the last of her notes and books into her satchel. She didn’t know why Theo wanted to
give her a preview of his weekend, but she could feel the probability of profound awkwardness
increasing by the second. “That’s nice,” she offered as she headed for the door.

“It is, thanks,” he fell into step with her. “You see, a friend of mine finished his house arrest this
week so I thought I’d take him out to celebrate.”

Hermione’s step hitched and she turned to him with narrowed eyes.

Theo was smiling blandly, “He’s a real surly tosser. Doesn’t actually want to go but I’ve talked
him into it. Duty of a best mate, you know.”
“Uh huh...”

“The thing is, he’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want me to talk to certain people - you know,
people that I, in particular, might run into on a day to day basis - about him at all. Very specific
and… graphic consequences were mentioned. Which is of course why I would never say anything
about him, and would only discuss my own plans as they naturally arose in general small talk, with
whoever was about.”

“Right…”

They had reached the building lobby where their classmates were departing through the floos. Theo
stopped and fixed her with a knowing look. “Giddy Goblin. Eight o’clock.” Then he walked off,
out through the front door.

Four hours of nausea and fierce internal debate followed.

What did Theo know? What had Draco said?

It was exactly half seven.

Hermione surveyed herself in the mirror, fiddling with her hair, looking for flaws in her makeup or
clothing that she could use to delay her departure a little longer. Maybe even some dire blemish
that would compel her to forego the whole thing. She studied her reflection with a dogged
pessimism.

Her makeup was, undeniably, flawless. Natural looking, but imparting a dewy glow. Her lips
looked incredible. The curls that usually caused her no end of trouble cascaded past her shoulders
in gleaming, romantic waves.

Dammit .

No help there.

She adjusted her blouse, a low cut burgundy, sheer-sleeved number that hadn’t seen the light of day
since she toted it home from the shop months ago. Appropriate for the Giddy Goblin? She had no
idea, but after several torturous surveys of her closet it was the only thing she didn’t hate at this
point.

She wished she could consult with Ginny about this. Any of this. But she hadn’t exactly been
forthright with her friends about Draco, so that conversation would require more explanation than
she cared to give in exchange for opinions on her outfit.

Although she might’ve been willing to brave the shitstorm if she thought Ginny could give her
advice on what the fuck she was supposed to say .

She had not seen, spoken to, or heard from Draco since she’d entrusted him to the tender mercies
of the Snatchers a year and a half ago.

His trial had been held behind closed doors. Kingsley had assured her that all was fair and above
board, that sometimes trials were conducted that way if sensitive information might be divulged or
if a defendant were cooperating with the Aurors, but she still didn’t trust it.

She’d written a pithy thirty two page letter to be submitted as part of the defense, full of compelling
moral arguments, emotionally fraught analogies, the spectre of history’s judgment, and citing
muggle, as well as magical, precedents for diminished responsibility.
Kingsley had glanced over the letter, rubbed his temples, and handed it back.

She’d had to rewrite it. One page. Only her own firsthand experience.

It had been a brutal caffeine and vodka fueled affair that had cost her more sleep than she cared to
mention, but she’d channeled her inner Slytherin to clothe blatantly coercive arguments in the
guise of a disinterested narrative. On one page.

She had no idea if it did any good.

Harry wrote a letter, too.

Well, Hermione wrote a letter that Harry signed. Under only the mildest duress.

Her black skirt was short. Was it too short?

Fuck.

She didn’t even know what she wanted out of this, but the anxiety was sufficient to keep the
question of whether she might be physically ill at the forefront of her mind.

It was now 7:32pm.

Dammit dammit.

She shoved back the seat of her vanity and stood. Enough was enough.

She was the fucking Golden Girl. A hero of the Battle of Hogwarts. Brightest fucking Witch of Her
Age.

She could handle this.

She stormed her floo, and when it spat her out at a small bodega-esque wizarding establishment in
Camden her momentum carried her out into the street and down the half block to where she caught
sight of The Giddy Goblin.

Discretion was maintained by means of a powerful muggle-repelling charm that rolled over her
with a tickling sensation that had her skittering in the first few steps after she crossed the threshold.
It was a nondescript pub inside and out, but the clientele definitely gave it colour. She wouldn’t
even want to wager on what percentage of the patrons were fully human.

She was early, but that was to plan. Bellying up to the bar she ordered herself a glass of pinot noir
and staked out a spot that afforded her a fair view while providing a degree of cover.

Gryffindor though she may be, there was no need to go charging blindly into the fray. Better to
scope it out, get the lay of the land, and then look for an opportune moment to… something. That
bit of the plan was still unclear.

Aside from his sentencing, she didn’t know anything about what had happened to Draco since their
time marauding around Scotland. There had been only a few weeks between the time the Snatchers
had retrieved him and the defeat of Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, but that seemed time
aplenty when Hermione had spent scarcely an hour with Bellatrix Lestrange and wasn’t ever likely
to forget it.

He’d anticipated being disowned but had been sentenced to house arrest along with his mother, so
that relationship was obviously better than he expected. Or was now much, much worse.
Either way, he’d just spent a lot of time with a woman who was a dedicated blood supremacist and
very much invested in Draco’s personal life. It would be awfully easy to fall back into old elitist
habits, wouldn’t it? How high could the appeal of resuming a muggleborn acquaintance be just
now?

What had happened between them felt real and intense to her, but might not be more than a wartime
footnote to him. A mad little detour to be remembered with a wry twist of the lips and shake of the
head.

She shouldn’t have come.

Bad idea. Bad, bad, bad idea.

She upended her wine glass and was just twisting off her barstool when the pub door swung open
and Theo walked through. Her tall classmate partially obscured the wizards who followed close
behind him, but the shock of distinctive white-blonde hair was unmissable, and she instantly
recognized the dark, broad shouldered figure of Blaise Zabini.

She fairly leapt back up onto her seat, just as the bartender came over to offer her a refill.

“Yes, please,” she said, trying not to look manic, as she indicated it ought to be a large refill.

A few tense minutes were spent with her hand to the side of her face, obscuring her identity to most
of the pub. There was a brief scare when a round, elderly wizard approached on her opposite side
and declared “ Oh my stars, you’re Hermione Granger! ” but she managed to diffuse that situation
with some rapidfire pleasantries she dispatched at barely more than a whisper.

Eventually though, she had to look.

As nonchalantly as she could, she brushed her hair aside to look over her shoulder. There was
bench seating all along the far wall and the wizards in question had settled into the corner, their
glasses and a bottle of whisky spread over two small tables. She could see Draco in profile but the
other two wizards were facing her much more directly.

He looked… alive.The reality of him safe and whole had her gripping the edge of the bar with
white knuckles. She didn’t realize how hard that alone would hit her. Some unsettled little thing
that had been agitating beneath her breastbone for more than a year came suddenly to rest.

No longer gaunt or unshaven, he still looked older than his years but it wasn’t in the haggard way
it had been. More self possessed. Her eyes roamed hungrily over his hands, his hair, his eyes, the
haughty lift of his chin, and his irritating hint of a smirk - yes, all her favourite bits were accounted
for.

She turned back toward the bar, biting her lip and bouncing her knee. What to do? Just then a
particular bottle caught her eye and inspiration struck.

Hailing the bartender she ordered up a glass of the cheapest white zinfandel he had on offer.
Preferably from a bottle that had been open a while. To be sent to the very blonde gentleman in the
corner.

Her heart was pounding as she watched him walk it over to their table and hand the glass to Draco.
He frowned down at it, bewildered, then sniffed at it and recoiled. The bartender bent a little to say
something to him and then pointed in her direction.

Draco’s gaze followed where he was indicating until his eyes met hers and then he inhaled
sharply, his eyes widening a little. Hermione raised her own glass in salute and offered a tentative
smile. He whipped back around and began speaking angrily to Theo, who put his hands up
defensively.

Well. That answered that.

And here she sat, smiling like an idiot.

Draco looked back in her direction for a second, then back at Theo, then just to his side. He
seemed so angry . Theo gave him a nudge and he just shook his head, scowling, glancing back
down again before picking up and draining his glass of whisky.

She should leave. And murder Theo.

But that’s when she noticed the cane.

Leaning against the bench beside him was a black cane with an elaborately engraved silver handle.
It practically screamed Malfoy. Of course it must be his.

Her gaze darted back up and she found him watching her look at it. He grit his teeth and took hold
of the handle.

Well, fuck that.

She set her glass down and strode over with purpose. Head up, shoulders back.

He was standing when she arrived.

“Granger,” the drawl seemed forced.

“Malfoy,” she greeted, and then without breaking eye contact “-Nott, Zabini.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“Fancied a drink.”

He sighed. “Can we-?” he indicated for her to step away from the table and its avid listeners.

She complied, but the little surge of adrenaline that had propelled her across the room was ebbing
away, and she found herself crossing her arms self consciously. Her stomach twisted when she saw
how heavily he limped as he followed.

“Why are you here?” he frowned.

“Should I not be?”

“I thought you were smart enough to pretend you didn’t know me,” his eyes flicked between hers.

“I’d never pretend I didn’t know you.”

“Gryffindor,” he accused.

“A real Slytherin would take advantage of that.”

“Who says I’m not?”

She bit her lip. “Well, you should be making the most of it then, shouldn’t you?”
“Rest assured, there will be headlines tomorrow: Golden Girl Deigns to Speak with Loathsome,
Evil Little Cockroach: Absolution Imminent ”

“A worthy enough cause, I suppose.”

“Waste of capital.”

Hermione felt her facade cracking and ducked her head. She couldn’t look at him as she asked, “Do
you… do you hate me?”

“Granger-”

She peeked up at him miserably, “I”m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to, but-”

“Don’t do that,” he cut her off. “Just- don’t. You know you could’ve been killed.”

She frowned down at her shoes some more, not sure what to say.

“That was a really stupid fucking risk.” he continued.

She shrugged.

He bumped a knuckle under her chin to get her to look up at him. “Seriously. Never again,
Granger.”

“I’ll remember that,” she couldn’t quite bite back a smile, “For the next time.”

He ducked his head to hide his own smile, before his gray eyes caught hers. “Thank you,” he said
quietly, earnestly.

She clutched at her heart like she’d had the shock of her life, “Holy shit. I’m going to have to buy a
pensieve. Draco Malfoy just thanked me for something.”

He gave a resigned sigh. “You know, I really thought my memory was embellishing all the sass I
got from you. I thought, ‘no, she couldn’t possibly have been that cheeky’, but here we are.”

“Maybe you just bring out the best in me.”

“Best is it?”

“Or worst. Hard to say which is which sometimes.”

“Ah. Well, that makes more sense.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. She had to work hard to resist the temptation to
reach out and touch him, to confirm his existence. Eventually she settled for tentatively asking
“How are you?”

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Your leg?”

“It’s fine. Still hurts but- it’s fine. It was... close. They wanted to amputate but mother wouldn’t let
them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, but he shook it off.

"You made it to Hogwarts in the end."

"Yeah, a week or so before the Battle.” She winced a little. She hated talking about it and was
relieved he didn't press.

“Theo says you sailed into the Healer training program.”

She brightened, “Eight N.E.W.T.s. All O’s.”

“Eight. Wow, that’s impressive.”

“And you? I believe we had a wager.”

“Yes, well, I must admit I got one Exceeds Expectations. In Astronomy, of all things,” he conceded
as Hermione smirked triumphantly. “But of course, in my other eight N.E.W.T.s I had all O’s.”

“Other… eight? But what-?”

“Muggle studies.”

“Muggle studies?! That doesn’t count! I would’ve got an O if I took that.”

“But you didn’t though.”

“Motherfucker,” she hissed.

Draco had never looked so pleased. “What did we wager anyway?”

“I don’t even remember. It doesn’t matter. You win all my pride and self respect and just… all the
foundational elements of my understanding of myself as a human. It’s all forfeit. Fucking muggle
studies .”

“Oh come on, love. It’s not so bad.”

She looked up sharply at the endearment.

Draco too seemed aware of the slip because he cleared his throat and shifted uneasily.

“So, I heard you and the Weasel are a thing," he said evenly, “I’m happy for you.”

She snorted, “No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” He glanced down before catching her eye again, “Don’t seem that compatible.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“He’s with someone else. Our relationship is a bit of a con for the press. Ron and Seamus aren’t
ready to go public, and I...” well.

“And you-?” he prompted.

“I’m a bit hung up on someone I’m not supposed to be. As it turns out.”

His eyes searched hers. She bit her lip and gave a half shrug.
“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” his voice wavered as he raised a hand to curl around the nape of her neck, his thumb
brushing along her jaw.

She nodded, not quite able to meet his eyes, staring instead at his lips. Waiting for him to hand
down the verdict.

“It better not be fucking Potter.”

She laughed and shook her head, grabbing a fistful of the front of his shirt.

“Hermione.” There was a ragged edge to his voice that caused a cataclysm in her chest.

And that was her limit.

She pushed up on her tiptoes and gave his shirt a tug to bring him closer. Her lips found his and she
felt it everywhere . She pulled away to gauge his reaction but he only followed, reclaiming her
mouth with a slow, deep kiss as his arms wound around her. She pressed herself to him, threading
her hands into his hair as she thrilled at the brush of his tongue against hers.

Her soul felt too big for her body.

There may have been some initial noises which they filtered out, distracted as they were, but it
wasn’t long before a veritable chorus of catcalls had them self-consciously pulling apart, although
their hands remained linked. Blaise gave a final appreciative wolf whistle.

"This is really okay?" Draco squeezed her hand.

Hermione's cheeks were flushed as she nodded. She couldn't keep the smile off her face.

"I don't suppose-" he glanced around "-you fancy an audience?"

"That's uh, probably something we should work up. Don't you think?" she teased.

He looked down at her with a familiar fond exasperation. "Why do I like you?

"Best not examine it too closely."

“Anyway. I was thinking-” he tugged her a little closer “-of leaving.”

“Yeah?”

“Apparating, maybe. Thought I should maybe coordinate that with you.”

 Chapter End Notes

It's kind of hard for me to imagine someone reading all the way through to the end of
this, so if you're here... damn, dude. Thanks. I feel like I should give you something. I
can offer virtual high fives, comment replies, and maaaybe a smutty epilogue, if you'd
be into it?

If you have the time to leave a kudos or comment, I'd love to hear from you :)

Works inspired by this one

Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!