“Why? Because he's your—? What would you even say you are to him?”
Hermione swallowed bitterly and refused to answer the question. “He will be tortured to death in the most horrific way possible, and you know that. The curse division victims would be lucky compared to what will be done to Draco. You — can't—”
Severus turned and stared coldly down at her. “Are you refusing orders, Miss Granger? Choosing Draco Malfoy over Mr Potter and the Order?”
Hermione froze and it seemed like time stopped as she struggled to breathe. She was collapsing inward. There was nothing left inside her.
“No.” Her voice was defeated. “No. I am loyal to the Order.”
Severus turned away. “If he hadn't been so overconfident, he could have protected himself with a Vow from you. Ego always is a Dark Wizard's downfall.” He sneered faintly as he stirred the potion.
Hermione shook her head.
“
“You're wrong. It wasn't some ego-based oversight. He's known. He's known this whole time that my memories could get him killed. He knew the Order set him up in June, even though I was too naive to. There's something else to all this, and we're missing it,” she said, gripping her hands into fists until she felt her nails cut into her palms.
Severus glanced back over at her, looking saddened. “You are compromised by him. Your opinion on the matter is no longer reliable.”
Hermione snarled. “It is not! Moody said I should do whatever I could to heal Draco. I followed my orders and healed him.” She drew a sharp breath. “Draco wants me to stay alive. My life is, for whatever reason, important to him. Whatever else he's doing, my well-being has become an obsession for him and he resents it. He's furious about it half the time because it's interfering with whatever original plans he had, but he can't stop himself. He knows he's reaching a tipping point. I can do this. Just give me more time. Please—”
Severus was unmoved. “You've been given time. You have until the end of next month.”
Hermione felt as though she were dying. Her lungs were shriveling, atrophying inside of her. “You're putting his death on my shoulders, Severus.”
“You made this bed for yourself. I did everything I could to give you an exit six months ago,” Severus said, looking away from her.
Hermione gave a ragged gasp.
Severus paused and added in a gentler voice. “If and when Kingsley and Moody expose Draco, we'll give you an hour to warn him; an opportunity for a more humane exit, if you wish to offer him one.”
Hermione balled her hands into fists and glared at Severus. “If you think that counts as consolation, you don't know me very well.” Her voice was shaking.
Severus gave no response.
A sob rose in her throat, choking her as she tried to force it down. She drew a rasping breath and turned to flee from Spinner's End.
As soon as she got past Severus' wards, she apparated.
She reappeared in Whitecroft. She always ended up there. She stood at the road and looked wistfully down the lane toward the shack that slowly bled into view.
She went and stared at the door. It was Thursday. There was no reason for her to be there on a Thursday. It would be suspicious and illogical. Draco would probably be enraged if she activated his wards on a Thursday for no reason.
She pushed the door open.
Draco appeared before she had stepped into the room.
He looked her up and down carefully, and she stared at him. She had felt as though she'd been starving until she saw him.
“What are you doing here?” he finally asked.
She blinked.
“I—,“ she flailed for an excuse. “The skirmish on Christmas Eve. I — was worried.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That was two days ago, Granger.”
“I couldn't get away. We lost a lot of fighters,” she said. “I had to stay in the hospital wing.”
“So you came at the first opportunity.” He was eyeing her with a dubious expression.
Hermione gave a small nod and walked toward him. She stared up at him, studying him, trying to find a sign of something in him. Anything. She just wanted to know what he was. “Are you alright, Draco?”
“Granger…” His tone was a warning. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing…” Her eyes dropped down to his hands. He'd touched her with those hands. He'd run his fingers through her hair and over her skin. He'd wrapped his hand around her throat, and it had aroused her.
He'd dismembered a Death Eater with those hands, killed dozens and dozens — possibly hundreds — of people she knew, assassinated Dumbledore…
He was ambidextrous, because he'd been intending for years to cut off his own arm in order to become a free agent. Someone who wouldn't need the Order to fight Voldemort for him.
She tore her eyes away from his hands.
“I just… I wanted to know that you were alright,” she said, staring down at her shoes.