We Could Run Away Together
“We could run away together.”
Draco snorted, and she felt his bare chest move against her bare back. It was early Sunday morning, and they were laying in his King-sized bed together, savouring the small window of time before the rest of the world woke up from its slumber.
“I’m serious.” She turned around to face him. The sun was just beginning to filter through the curtains, bathing his face, his hair, his chest in soft yellow light. They had woken up early, despite their late night. “We could just vanish. Poof. We’d be careful not to leave a trace. No one would know where we were.”
“And where would we go?”
“I don’t know. Spain.”
“Spain?” Draco laughed. The sunlight glinted off his teeth and for a second, Hermione was stunned silent. “What’s in Spain?”
“Beautiful beaches, for one. Anonymity, for another. We could live in some small town, or a fishing village.”
“I don’t fish, Granger.”
“Neither do I, but we could learn.”
He looked at her sleepily, his eyes still half-lidded with the remnants of sleep. He yawned and pulled her in against his warm chest, wrapping his arms around her. She was suddenly engulfed in him, his warmth, his smell—musky, with a hint of citrus, mixed with something distinctly male. She closed her eyes and buried herself even further into his arms. Surely there couldn’t be a war waging on outside, not when the sun was so bright this morning. Not when she felt like this.
“Okay, Granger,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. His words ghosted over her shoulders, raising goosebumps on her skin and she thought: if I could die here, I would.
“We’ll run away together,” he said, his fingertips drawing lazy lines down her back.
She knew he was lying. She knew their days were numbered. She knew that in just a few short hours they would both have to report back to their respective sides. They would have to hear the the news of who didn’t make it through the night, heal the ones who did, and then strategise, plan, fight.
Hermione didn’t know how much more of it she could take.
“Spain,” he promised, and sealed it with a chaste kiss to her lips. Hermione, suddenly overcome, grabbed his face and held him there. She kissed him as hard as she could, hoping that her kiss conveyed all that she couldn’t bring herself to say.
I love you. I’m sorry that it’s this way. I’m sorry it took a war for us to realise how good we are together, and I’m sorry it will be the war that breaks us apart.
She spoke these words over and over in her head, even after Draco’s breathing had steadied and he’d fall back asleep, still clutching her to his chest.