He stepped closer, and she looked sharply up at him. His eyes were cold. She started to back away, but he caught hold of her wrist with his left hand and jerked her firmly toward him and then crowded her into the wall until she was trapped against him.
“Since when have you worried about me?” he said with a sneer. His eyes were hard and glinting like quicksilver.
“I don't know,” Hermione felt tempted to cry at the admission. He scoffed.
“And now—? You suddenly can't help yourself?”
“I just wanted to see you.”
His mouth twitched. “Why?”
“Because I'm afraid that someday I'll come and you won't—,” her voice cracked faintly, and she twisted her captured wrist enough to wrap her fingers around his wrist.
His eyes flickered. His hand remained wrapped around her wrist, and his face was inches from hers.
He studied her for a moment, and his expression wavered; something indecipherable in it as she stared up at him.
He drew in a short breath and gave a low laugh. “Is this goodbye then, Granger?”
Her hold tightened. “No!”
Her breath caught. She stared at him and caught his robes in her other hand as she tried to breathe. She dropped her head and rested it against his chest. He smelled like oakmoss and cedar.
She shook. “I just — wanted to see you.”
She felt his right hand come up to rest on her shoulder, and the heat of it slowly sank into her bones as his thumb lightly ran along her collarbone. She kept gripping his other wrist.
“Don't — die, Draco.”
“What's wrong, Granger?”
“Nothing. I just — spent a lot of time making your healing kit. It would be really ungrateful of you to die now. So — don't.”
He gave a hollow laugh, and his hold on her shoulder tightened. Then she felt his forehead drop against the top of her head for a split second before drawing away.
“Only because you asked,” he said. The sharp edge of sarcasm seemed faint. He sounded almost bitter.
She held his wrist tighter. She wanted—
She wanted—
It didn't matter. It didn't matter what she wanted. It never mattered.
For Harry. For Ron. It will be worth it.
She had promised those words to herself a thousand times, but they suddenly sounded hollow.
Draco wasn't innocent, but he didn't deserve the penalty Voldemort would inflict for his betrayal. Easing her conscience and euthanising him would be a paltry form of reparation.
She'd be a hero then, she realised bitterly. She'd exonerate herself to the world and damn herself privately. She would never forgive herself. It would be unforgivable. The guilt would eat her alive.
She hissed through her teeth as she tried to think.
“What's wrong, Granger?” Draco asked again when she had been quiet for a minute.
“Nothing. It was just an unexpectedly bad Christmas,” she said in a tight voice.
He snorted and twisted his hand free. Stepping away, he studied her. He gave a deep sigh.
“Activating the wards is for emergencies,” he said. “Not because you're worried or having a bad day. You'll risk my cover, and I'll be forced to try to guess whether it's worth the risk of responding immediately.”
Hermione felt herself pale.
“I'm sorry. I won't call you again unless it's urgent,” Hermione said. He looked skeptical. “I swear it,” she said forcefully, “If I ever activate them again, it will be legitimate.”
He gave a sharp nod. “You've given your word, I'll trust you to keep it.”
She gave a small nod back, and he vanished without a sound.
Hermione stayed in the shack; staring at the spot he'd disappeared from. Wondering what to do.
December 2002
The next time Hermione arrived at the shack, Draco appeared wearing only trousers and a shirt. She stopped and stared in surprise.
He quirked an eyebrow and looked down at himself. “I didn't fancy getting you tangled in my robes,” he said with a suggestive drawl.
He stared at her for a moment with narrowed eyes before gesturing her forward.
“Given that you aren't necessarily training for skirmishes, we need to expand your combat abilities,” he began in a clipped voice. “Vampires, hags, or harpies won't have wands, but they're experienced when it comes to attacking Wizarding folk. They go for close attacks that are difficult to fight off. Most wizards study defense against them assuming distance, but a smart hag will get you within arm's reach as quickly as possible. They know combat spells are difficult to perform close range. Werewolves may have wands, but most that run in packs prefer physical combat. You're — small.” Hermione snorted, and Draco glared at her mildly. “You're going to be at a disadvantage in any fight. You need to defend yourself creatively.”
“Alright.” Hermione gave a sharp nod.