Then she really was falling. The wall behind her vanished, and she was on a mattress somewhere canopied. She'd barely felt the apparition.
She only pulled her mouth from Draco's for a moment to glance around before crashing their lips together once more. He wrenched her shirt off, and she jerked his trousers open.
Quick. Hard. She was ready for him. She raked her nails across his back as he sank into her.
There wasn't space in her mind for anything else. Touching him. Moving against him. Feeling him. The world had reduced itself to a single point: Draco, his hands and eyes, the beating of his heart. She wrapped her arms around him as she kissed him, and kissed him, and kissed him.
Afterwards they lay entwined for several minutes, their foreheads pressed together as they panted.
He kissed between her eyes, and his palm brushed against her face. Then he drew back and ran his hands along her body, looking over her arms and torso carefully. She lifted her head to see what he was doing.
“You weren't at the battle at the cottage, were you? I didn't think any of the Potters there dueled the way you do, but it was impossible to be sure.” He brushed his fingers along the shell of her ear and then down along her shoulder.
Hermione dropped back and shook her head, looking him over as well, trailing her hand along his torso. He had no visible injuries.
“I wasn't there. It was a proper raid; Kingsley wouldn't bring me out.” Her jaw trembled, and she looked away. “You won't need to worry. I'm not—,” the words twisted in her mouth, “I'm not permitted to leave the safe houses anymore, aside from liaising. So you won't need to worry.”
Draco gave an audible sigh of relief and sank down against her, brushing another kiss on her forehead.
Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.
“What's wrong?”
She looked up and found Draco staring intently down at her, his expression closed.
The corner of her mouth quirked. “I liked foraging. It was — the only bearable thing I got to do sometimes.” Her eyes dropped down, and she entwined her fingers with his. She stared at his hand in hers. “My life just keeps getting smaller and darker.”
There was a pause.
“I'm sorry.”
She shrugged under him. “It's not like you ordered it. You said stay alive; Kingsley is the one who decided that meant I wasn't allowed to forage or leave the safe houses. I understand. He's responsible for an entire war effort. I'm not going to ask him to structure it around my personal feelings. I just—” she paused, inhaling. “I'm still coming to terms with it.”
“I didn't realise it was important to you.”
She was silent for a moment, hesitating. “Some days — it was the closest thing to freedom I still had.”
She felt his whole body freeze.
“Just — just until the end of the war,” he said in a tone that was half plea and half vow.
Hermione snorted. “Just till then? When will that be?” She gave him a bitter smile. “What end of the war do you think will somehow go well for either of us? If the Order somehow wins, I'm sure the International Confederation will suddenly be eager to be involved. They'll preside over all the trials. I already told you, a lot of my activity has been largely unsanctioned, and the Order is supposed to be democratic. When it all comes out—” she looked away, unable to meet his eyes, “—it won't paint a very pretty picture.” She raised her eyebrows and gave a small sigh. “If I'm lucky they'll just take my wand away for a few years. There are certain things—”
Her chest tightened as she thought about the small room within the cave at the beach. The blood. Flayed hands and feet. Over the course of a year, Gabrielle had gotten crueler and more creative. Injuries were rarely reversible now, and Kingsley did not rein her in because the Order
Hermione's name sat beside Kingsley's in every prisoner file. Her handwriting neatly cataloguing in precise, clinical terms the injuries she'd healed, the exact condition of each prisoner when she placed them in stasis.
She swallowed. “I'm not as good a person as you think. I–I could very well end up in Azkaban.”
Draco was silent for a moment as he stared at her. His fingers twitched and tightened around her. “Run. Say the word, and I'll get you out. You don't have to stay here.”
A craven part of herself rose up and unfurled at his words. Out. Free. Far away from the war.
She didn't know how much she wanted it until she heard it offered by someone who meant it.
The idea of living without the war — she wanted to.
“You know I won't,” she said, looking up into his eyes.
His expression was bitter, and his eyes flickered, showing tired resignation. He nodded. “The offer stands. Give the word, I'll get you out.”
She studied him. “What about you?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “If I could run, I would have vanished while my mother was alive.”
Hermione nodded slowly. He would never be there if he had any choice. “Of course. Would you go now, if you could?”