When she woke next, it was nearly evening. Draco was sitting next to her, playing with her fingers.
“How are you here?” she asked, staring up at him bewildered.
He quirked an eyebrow. “This is my suite.”
She rolled her eyes. “How are you in the Muggle world? And how are you able to spend a whole day in bed with me? Aren't you a General?”
He tangled a hand in her hair and pulled her mouth against his, rolling on top of her and kissing her for several minutes before drawing his head back and staring at her. “I'm usually in the Muggle world when I'm not working. Unless I'm polyjuiced, there's no — what I am, and what I've done—” he looked away, “—everyone knows who I am. So — when I'm not on duty, I come into the Muggle world. No one knows me. If anything requires my presence, the Dark Lord can summon me himself or send someone to the Manor. I know if anyone tries to enter the gates.”
“You don't live at your manor?” she asked. His hand slid possessively down her throat, and she felt his thumb ghost across her collarbone.
“I don't. Not unless I'm required to host something. I—,” he withdrew his hand and sat up abruptly. “—it — it—” his head dropped for a second, and he drew a sharp breath. “Everything is tainted there. Every time I'm there, I hear my mother — screaming. It's like the house is haunted. The cage she was kept in; it was built into the floor of the drawing room using magic from the estate's ley lines. I can't remove it.”
The bitterness in his tone reminded Hermione of how private his grief was. How carefully he'd carried it. All alone. Year after year.
“I'm so sorry,” she said, resting her hand on his cheek and catching strands of his hair with her fingertips. He dropped his head against her palm and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Anyway,”—his voice was tense and uncomfortable—“it would raise questions if I were seen living elsewhere. Somehow I ended up in the Muggle world.” He gave a faint incredulous laugh. “I wandered around trying to figure out how it all works here. The concierge is useful; no matter how idiotic the questions I ask or bizarre the request, they find a way to accommodate it. And they never ask questions, no matter how much I bleed on their towels.”
“What hotel is this?” she asked, sitting up and glancing around the room.
“Ah. What day of the month is it?” he said musingly. “Last week of March — this is the Savoy.”
Hermione drew back slightly to stare at him. “You have multiple hotels you stay at?”
“Too much magical activity could eventually draw attention, even with all the wards. So I cycle between a few of them with an arithmantical randomisation equation. The staff are mildly Confunded; not anything detectable, just enough that if they were asked for my physical description, they'd all offer something different.” He shrugged.
Hermione blinked and tried not to think about how much money Draco was spending by keeping multiple hotel suites constantly at his disposal. Rich wanker.
“So you live in posh Muggle hotel suites when you're not being a General in the Wizarding War,” she said, shaking her head with disbelief.
“You knew I've studied Muggle history; where did you think I did it? I'm fairly good at blending in.” His tone dripped with aristocratic smugness as he said it, and Hermione doubted there was anywhere in the world that he could be described as blending in.
He looked away from her again, twisting his left arm to hide the Dark Mark. “It seemed sensible to do things temporarily, and it was something to do when I had time off.”
Hermione was silent. Of course, he'd spent almost a year waiting for the day when she would sell him out. Temporary. Uncommitted. It was sensible.
She rested her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around him. She could feel the scars of his runes under her fingers.
“When — when did you realise that I didn't know you were supposed to die in June?”
He gave a faint laugh. “When you said it. I thought when I pointed out that you should have anticipated my punishment that you'd realise Moody and Shacklebolt set me up. But you didn't. Then I assumed by the next day it would have been explained to you. But it apparently hadn't. So I concluded that Moody and Shacklebolt had decided that my survival was useful in the meanwhile. It was clear, based on how you behaved, they wouldn't inform you of that detail until they decided to make the move. Which made you both amusing and agonising to be around. Sometimes I wanted to just tell you, but — I suppose I enjoyed the way you wanted to save me.”
Hermione pressed her lips together and rested her forehead against him. “I did wonder sometimes, at the beginning, if that was the plan. But I assumed it was years away. I tried not to think about it. And eventually I forgot. After I healed your runes and you stopped coming — I stopped thinking about it then. I was so preoccupied with wondering if I were ever going to see you again.”
Draco was silent.