Chapter Text
All she could do was run.
She’d tried hiding, she’d tried healing, she’d done every little thing that was asked of her, and they’d found her anyway. They’d stained the cabin walls with blood and ripped the light from the eyes of her friends, they’d aimed their wands and sent currents of white-hot pain down her spine, and then they’d forced her to abandon her post— her friends, limp and lifeless— and chased her into the woods.
And so, she ran; as hard as she could, for as long as she could. Until her legs ached, and her feet caught in the raised roots of the trees, sending her tumbling into the dirt. It was cruel poetry, really— these roots had been here for hundreds of years, surviving many wars before this one, stock-still and patiently waiting to put an end to her futile fight.
“No,” she groaned into the earth, nails digging into the wet soil as she tried to push herself back to her feet. “No.”
The bark of a nearby tree offered leverage, and she hauled herself back onto jellied legs, holding the body of the tree like a lifeline. She looked up at the sky, the skull and snake symbol that hovered above them, watching her with smoked-out eyes.
Got you, it seemed to taunt.
Not yet, she thought.
It was slow going; her body was dragged down by exhaustion, her eyelids heavy with the slumber that she’d not allowed herself in the days since they’d arrived here. She held her wand tightly in her hand and channelled all energy reserves into her palm, letting the magic that hummed in her blood settle there, primed and ready.
It had been six days since they’d arrived here at the New Forest, and there had not been a moment’s peace since. It was Kingsley’s idea to separate Harry, Ronald, and herself, citing that together they presented too large of a target, separately they would be harder to track. The war had been stretched long beyond its lifespan, all sides were spent, clinging onto the stubborn hope that one would relent.
It has been naive of them to think that Voldemort’s death would be all it took to bring about harmony in the wizarding world. They’d given everything they had to vanquish him— but it was never just one dark wizard, was it? The loyalty of his followers did not die beside him, nor did their vision for the world he’d tried to carve. If anything, his death had only made them more desperate, more vicious. They had nobody to fear now, nobody to punish them, no reason for caution.
You better still be alive out there , she thought as she stumbled along the forest floor, thinking of Harry, of Ron, of…others.
Winter was soon to melt into spring, which meant that the ground was permanently wet and slippery, not exactly the season for camping. But she could picture how beautiful this landscape could be under different circumstances; she could settle for a picnic under the Beech trees of Mallard Wood, could hand-feed carrots to the wild ponies that had no hesitancy approaching human hands, or venture on one of the many forest walks, birdwatch, read to the soundtrack of the flowing streams that cut through the—
“Confringo!”
The bark beside her splintered suddenly, sending her crashing back to the ground. She yelped as the wood cut into her raised arms, and then she scrambled for the nearest cover, dragging herself to temporary safety.
“Okay,” she murmured to herself in soothing, gathering her wand again. “This— okay.”
She held her breath and listened for the sound of snapping twigs; one good thing about the location was the lack of stealth the forest floor offered, even for those with the lightest of feet. Her cheek pressed against the bark as she listened, eyes scanning her surroundings for any sign of movement.
It wouldn’t be the snatchers; they were long gone by now, having called in the sighting the second she escaped their foul clutches. No, this was someone far worse.
When her lungs were screaming for release, she finally let out a slow breath, wincing as it croaked in her dry, torn throat. She needed to stay low and silent, there was too much risk in—
Snap.
She leaned around the body of the tree and pointed her wand in the direction of the sound. “Deprimo!”
The earth kicked up from where her spell had landed, and she saw the long cloak of her adversary swish in the aftershock of her spell. She threw another, and another, and another. Expulso, Bombarda, Incarcerous, Stupefy , any of them, all of them, until the words were little more than a groan on her tongue, and her shoulders slumped with fatigue.
She lowered her wand and stumbled towards another tree, seeking further cover, but she was too slow. The stinging hex shot through her thigh and sent her tumbling—again. She let out a loud cry and tried to shake it off, enervated arms dragging her closer to shelter.
She looked over her shoulder, catching sight of the tip of a dark boot from behind a nearby tree. Her arm raised again, wand at the ready. “Stupefy!”
There was a rough grunt from behind the tree, followed by the thud of a large body hitting the ground. She didn’t stop to look, instead continuing her feeble attempt at freedom. With a muffled cry, she pushed herself to her feet, one more time, and reached out her arms for the tree. She had to make it. She had to get out of there. She had to find her way back to Harry and Ron. She needed to tell the families of the fallen that they had died valiantly. She needed to apologise for not being able to save them. She needed to find—
“Hermione?”
She whirled, her wand pointed at the masked figure now standing mere meters from her, tall and broad in classic death eater robes; a meaningless way to honour a master that was too dead to appreciate it. This figure wasn’t aiming his wand at her though, no…his hands were open and raised, held up by his shoulders, a slight tremble in them both. He looked so familiar.
So familiar.
But there was no way.
“Hermione.” The figure breathed in a voice that did not make sense, that should not belong to him— could not belong to him. “I knew it was you the second I felt that stun, only your magic feels like that.”
With a quick twitch of his still open palm, the mask disappeared into black smoke, and her wand dipped instantly. Draco Malfoy looked back at her, his eyes wide and wild and just as beautiful as she remembered them being, glinting like blades under the stormy sky. Her heart leapt into her throat, pushing out a choked sob that had been lodged there. With her spare hand, she braced herself against the body of the tree, trying to stop her knees from giving out at the sight of him.
“Hermione,” he breathed again, those magnificent lips pulling into a pained smile, the motion unpractised.
He said her name like it was the answer to every question he’d ever asked, and she wasn’t entirely certain that she had not already died, that this was not one final kind hallucination her mind could offer before it all ceased.
He took a long step towards her and the crunch under his heavy boot brought her back to life for a moment, her wand raised again, pointing directly at his throat, and he stopped abruptly. His chest was heaving, but not from exhaustion.
“Where would we meet?” she asked, her voice coming out a lot stronger than she’d anticipated— a lot stronger than she felt.
His features softened slightly at her question, and his hands fell to his sides. “The room of requirement, usually in the middle of the night.”
“What did we say to summon it?” she spoke again, but the strength had wavered this time, as had her grip on her wand.
He took another step, unbothered by her threat; he knew as well as she did that it was entirely empty. “A place to come home.”
With those five words, her wrist went limp, her wand tumbled to the ground, and her legs were invigorated with energy she’d long since thought burned. She lurched for him, the cry tearing itself free from her chest as he reached for her too.
It was just as she remembered, the feel of his arms, the cage of his body, the heat of his skin. They crashed into each other like the thundering clouds above them, fingers digging into each other’s arms, waists, backs, hair. Muffled apologies and gratitudes pressed into shoulders and necks. She shook from her head to her toes in his arms, as he did in hers.
“Hermione—fuck, I’m so sorry, I’ve been looking everywhere—”
“I can’t believe—I thought I’d never find—it’s you —”
They cut each other off with a kiss that shed even the weight of war, and with it came the flood of memories; kissing in the alcoves of the castle corridors, knees knocking under the table during potions class, tongues dancing together as he backed her up against shelves of miscellaneous odds and ends that pressed into the grooves of her spine. The way he’d breathe air into her lungs and take it back for himself. The way he’d held her before each summer break, the way he’d breathed strangled apologies into her collarbone in sixth year, the way he’d kissed her with salted tears on his lips as they left for opposing sides of a brewing war.
“Draco,” she cried, pulling him closer, if it were even possible.
He pulled back, strong hands holding her upper arms as his shining eyes took her in, jaw pulsing as his gaze travelled over the length of her, snagging on the stains that covered her clothing. “Is…did I…are you hurt?”
“It’s not my blood,” she answered quickly, brushing aside the sharp stab of grief that cut through her at the admission. “It was from the attack on the cabin, my unit…they—I couldn’t.”
“Fuck,” he whispered, hands raising to bracket her face, stilling her wobbling lips. He leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss between her eyebrows, and she closed her eyes to the warmth that he offered. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“But it could have been,” he argued, arms snaking around her to pull her flush against his chest, his face buried deep into the matted curls of her hair. “Please, tell me if you are hurt.”
“Not really, a few cuts, I’m just exhausted,” she sighed into him, feeling his nose push into the crown of her head. “Are you hurt? I hit you.”
His laugh was sharp and breathy and over far too quickly. “You did, I knew those duelling lessons would pay off.”
“Git,” she mumbled, holding him tighter. “Really though, did I—”
“No,” he ducked down to kiss beneath her ear. “No. They are old injuries, not from you.”
They both carried the scars of their separation, it seemed. She peered up at him and found nothing but relief and reverence in his eyes, and suddenly it all seemed simultaneously worth it and not worth it at all. She kissed him with everything she had— which wasn’t much, but still…enough. Enough to tell him everything her words could not, enough to show him that she’d missed him, that she’d looked for him, that she was so very glad he was here.
He kissed her back with the pace of a man savouring the flavours of his final meal, his lips parted hers as he inhaled her, his hands holding her head with a gentle firmness that made her feel things she’d almost forgotten herself capable of feeling. He kissed her like he loved her, like no time had passed, like an eternity had.
She could taste his tears on her tongue, as he could surely taste hers, but it mattered not; they were together, they had found each other. Their hearts pounded to reach each other through their flushed chests, and she felt her feet leave the ground as he picked her up and manoeuvred her back against the bark of the tree, shifting so that her tired legs could wrap around him, finding purchase on his hips.
Nothing existed but them.
“Let me,” he whispered against her lips, tugging out his wand and muttering healing spells between kisses, sealing her wounds— both external and internal.
She wanted to do the same, but her own wand lay discarded by their feet, covered in leaves and dirt. Her attempt to wriggle out of his hold was fruitless, as he held her in place, his breath hot against her jaw.
“No,” he mumbled, nipping at her playfully. “Stay here, with me.”
“Turnabout is fair play,” she hummed, letting her head fall back against the tree as he trailed his mouth along her throat.
His hands squeezed her thighs, her waist, before he finally settled her back to the ground. “Fine,” he exhaled, bending to retrieve her wand.
She made quick work of it, letting her magic touch him as carefully as her hands, watching as his posture settled under its tender caress. He couldn’t stop touching her, and she didn’t want him to. A finger caught in a curl, his legs pressed against her hips, his hand splayed wide on her thigh, his lips moving slowly against her forehead; words unspoken, yet entirely felt.
“There is a place for us,” he said quickly, leaning back to level his eyes with hers. “In Alaska. Nobody knows about it, I’ve had it ready and waiting.”
“Why haven’t you gone yet?” she asked, cupping his jaw, relishing in the way he leaned into her palm.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her wrist. “I’m not going without you.”
I’ve been looking for you too, she thought. Everywhere. Every day . But he knew it already, she could tell.
“You want to run away?”
“Yes,” he didn’t miss a beat, his thumb tracing her lower lip; no longer split down the middle. “This isn’t ending in victory for either side, Hermione. I want you safe.”
“I know,” she pressed onto her toes and kissed him again, unable to stop herself. “I know. I want you safe too.”
“Then let’s go. I have a portkey back at the manor, we can—”
“But what about Harry? Ronald? The Order?” she asked, biting her lip as he pressed her further against the tree, his thigh slipping between her legs and pushing up against her in the most breathtaking way.
“I’ll be honest with you, Hermione,” his thumb tucked under her chin and tilted her head back, lining their mouths up perfectly. “I don’t care.”
“I do,” she argued with a low moan, rocking against him instinctively. “I can’t leave them.”
“They aren’t here,” he replied smoothly. “You’re already gone, be gone with me.”
God, it was tempting. Everything about him was tempting, just as it had been back in fourth year when their infatuation had begun. She’d spent so many nights wrestling with the guilt and confusion that her attraction to him had caused, only to discover him pacing the halls with the same burning fury inside of him. A clash of words, a clash of tongues, and they had found themselves irrevocably entwined.
He was right; she was already separated from Harry and Ronald. This war was never going to be over. They had one chance to spend this wretched life together, and she wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted polar winters and muggle coffee in the mornings and the sweet, soothing sound of his even breathing as he slept beside her. She wanted to watch him shake the snow out of his hair, to watch it melt into the lines of his smile, to kiss away the chill that clung to his cheeks.
“It’s cold in Alaska,” she said with a smile, and the way his eyes lit up told her that he knew he’d won.
“I’ll keep you warm.”
She shoved against his shoulders playfully, and he stumbled back, granting her some momentary breathing space. He looked like a boy again— the same one that had copied her homework for their History of Magic class and then offered to help her with her Potions essay. The same one that had taken her hand as they ran for the staircase before it could change course. The same one that had found her after the Yule Ball and danced under the dimming candlelight of the courtyard, secret and precious and painfully tender.
“Alright,” she said, straightening her shirt. “But you better have stocked up on board games, you know how much I love to beat you at—”
There was a cold sensation at her waist.
And that boy vanished, replaced by the man that had been forced into his place. His eyes bulged, his face paled, and she knew this version of him too. This version of him had sobbed into her lap in sixth year when he admitted to his fateful mission, this version of him had trembled with agony and sickness as she wailed on the floor of his drawing room, had promised her he’d love her with his last breath as they’d parted for what she’d assumed would be their final time.
She looked down and saw the dark flow of blood seeping through her shirt. It didn’t hurt, not at all.
“Draco,” she whispered, and then she was falling, though not for long.
Arms caught her carefully, cradling her in his lap as they lowered to the ground, one hand on her wound, another wrapped tightly around his wand. He raised it to something over her shoulder, and she didn’t bother to look— there was no time to waste looking anywhere but him. His eyes were dark and blazing with righteous anger, and he was beautiful within his madness.
“Avada Kadavra!” he called, the curse reflecting green on his pale skin.
She reached up to touch his cheek, and his attention snapped back to her instantly. Not even a blink was spared for the death his hands had caused, not even a second. She whispered, “Not for me.”
“They’ve all been for you,” he replied sternly, eyes already locked to her waist, peeling back her shirt with a sharp intake of breath.
As mine have been for you , she thought, though could not bring herself to admit it aloud.
He is already muttering spells against her skin, his wand pointed at her waist, his voice shaking as he recants them again and again and again. But it’s not working, she knows it from the look on his face alone. He doesn’t give up, holding her so tightly that it almost hurts, spells mixed with soft sobs, desperate pleas to a world that doesn’t grant wishes.
“Slicing hex?” she asks quietly, and he nods once.
“Your bag,” his eyes widen with heartbreaking hope. “You always have essence of—”
“Used it all in the cabin, not that it would have worked, the cut is too deep.”
“Fuck,” he barks, tears dripping from the end of his nose. “It’s so much blood. Hermione, you need…I need to—”
“Apparate with me?” she asked feebly, already feeling the immense and terrifying pressure to let her eyes drift closed. “To the Manor, and then we can—”
“The risk of splinching you in this state is too high,” he replied, shaking his head rapidly, rocking her slowly. “I can fix it.”
“You can’t fix it,” she was laughing now, an airy noise that sounded nothing like her usual laugh— little more than an ominous rattle of breath, but it didn’t matter.
He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, tormented defeat seeping through every feature, and then he settled into something more determined. She watched it all, mesmerised, happy to know his face would be the last she saw. That’s all she’d wanted; all she could have asked for.
“Christmas.” His voice was firm and loud, she felt it rumble in her chest, dragging her back above the surface of the heavy fog. “You and I are going to spend Christmas in Alaska. I’m going to cook dinner, it’ll taste like shit, and we’ll get merry by a roaring fire.”
“You can’t cook,” she smiled, and he returned it in kind.
“No, but that’s beside the point.” He bent forward and pressed a long, lingering kiss to her lips. She wanted him to keep kissing her until it was over, for his lips to be the last sensation left of her, to guide her into the next life. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” she fought so hard to keep her eyes open, but those words fell from her tongue with delightful ease.
“I found you once,” his breath was hot against her cheek, and she turned into it; a moth seeking light. “I’ll find you again.”
In his hand, she found her wand, though he did not offer it to her. He pointed it to the clouded sky; grey and rumbling with the threat of a downpour. The rain would wash away her blood, it would cool her skin and calm her mind, and everything would fade into bliss. But Draco had other plans, and she watched as he cast a murmured spell into the sky.
Her wand sang for him, like its very core had been calling out to him for just as long as hers had. It performed his request beautifully, filling the sky with the flaming symbol of a rising phoenix— a beacon. One she’d cast merely two days ago to call her now fallen unit to her, one she never wanted to cast again, not now. She watched its wings expand with tears in her eyes.
“No,” she whimpered, holding him tighter.
“They’ll help you,” he said, burying his face into her hair. “You’ll be fine.”
“You have to get out of here,” she pleaded, despite the hold she still had on his robes. “Please don’t let them—you have to— please.”
His last kiss was too hasty for her liking, but he knew she was right. With gentle hands he settled her onto the ground, fingertips hovering over her cheekbones as he brushed the curls from her eyes. “I’ll watch you go.”
“The trees,” she groaned, suddenly aware of everything, every little sound. “Go.”
“Christmas, Hermione.”
It was a promise. An order. A vow. And she clung to it with every last shred of hope in her body.
“Christmas, Draco.”
He placed her wand on her chest and ran for the treeline, barely making it to the shadows they offered before The Order healers arrived, hurrying to her with bags of potions that she didn’t care to ask about. Her eyes lingered on the shadows, where silver eyes still watched her. She could feel everything he felt, every beat of his heart, every hitch in his breath, even with this space between them.
When they lifted her to the medibed and made to set up the portkey, she kept her eyes on the trees, and she pictured it; a cabin in the hidden mountain ranges of Alaska, burrowed under polar winters. Draco in a hat and scarf, zipping up her coat for her. His laugh carrying over the bitter air, his frozen lips thawing against hers. Remote and desolate, and far, far from here, they could be together.
A place to come home.
And it could be. It would be. Soon.